Sheltering Arms
by Meercat
Summary: TV-verse. Jeff Tracy unexpectedly becomes a father again-times three. Chapter 8: Jeff meets with his lawyer.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: **Sheltering Arms

**AUTHOR: **Meercat ()

**SERIES: **Thunderbirds

**RATING: **PG-13

**CATEGORY: **drama, angst

**SYNOPSIS: **TV-verse. Jeff Tracy suddenly finds himself a father again--times three. Will IR survive?

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, never were, but don't I wish. If they were mine, they'd still be on (an in) the air and a Certain Director would have never gotten his hands on them! Not making no money off this (drat and doubledrat!). All original Thunderbird characters and sets belong to Gerry Anderson. No copyright infringement is intended.

**SPOILERS: **None for the series, but there are references to my previous story, "Phoenix Rising." You don't have to read it to follow this one.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I haven't abandoned my CSI: NY story, "When the Evil Shall Be Done." I'm tuning the last few chapters now. This story has begged to be posted for almost a year now, so I thought I'd get it started.

**SPECIAL THANKS: **A very special thanks to Sam Winchester, beta extreme!

**Chapter 1**

**Dying Declaration**

Tracy One landed at JFK International Airport at ten minutes to eight in the morning, Eastern time. No one outside of the control tower made note of its arrival. This was not surprising, considering the atmospheric conditions. Shrouded in pea-soup fog, the silver jet and its equally silver-haired pilot might as well have been the only moving things on the face of the planet.

Using instruments to overcome zero visibility, Jefferson Tracy taxied Tracy One through thick fog until he reached the corporate hanger. Once there, he concluded post-flight checks before exiting the craft. The billionaire head of Tracy Enterprises signaled the men on duty to refuel even as he turned to the motor pool area and examined his choice of vehicles.

With a private grin, he chose the Thunderbird Maxim--a pre-production model based off his son Alan's initial design--for the short trip to Tracy Towers. He tossed his briefcase and overnight bag onto the passenger seat, gave the mechanics a final wave, and left the hanger, headed for the airport exit and the main city arteries beyond.

Because of the fog that shrouded the new Throughway connecting the airport to the financial district of Manhattan Island, Jeff activated the car's automatic navigation. Leaving the instruments to maneuver him through the hazardous conditions, he sat back and triggered his telecom.

"Jeff Tracy to Thunderbird 5. Come in, Virgil."

The face of his auburn-haired, second-born son filled the round face of his watch. Jeff grinned--the sight of his boys in their blue International Rescue uniforms never failed to give him a kick of pride.

_"Thunderbird 5, receiving you strength five, Father. How was the flight?"_

"Smooth, as always. I've arrived in New York and am on my way to headquarters. The traffic on the Throughway is unexpectedly thick due to fog, but the auto-nav is working fine. Remind me to thank Brains for improving the program and the scanners' sensitivity. I should be at the office in around 30 minutes." His attention focused on the white sling that supported Virgil's right arm. "How are you feeling?"

The face on his watch grimaced. _"I still don't see why I couldn't stay on the island. I could have manned the base as easily as any of the others. I'm not that fond of satellite duty, you know."_

"I never would have guessed. Son, you're in no condition to respond to a rescue, so we need Alan to fly Thunderbird Two. If a major alert comes in that requires four men, well, John is quite capable. And physically able-bodied, something you currently are not. It's only for a few weeks, son, until that gash on your arm heals."

Virgil sighed and looked down. _"I know, Father. I do understand, and if I were in your place, I'd probably have done the same thing."_

Jeff looked out the vehicle window and watched the heavy metal support cables of the Frohman Bridge blink in and out of the heavy fog bank. The East River lay invisible beneath the soupy mist. Foghorns moaned continuously as unseen ships attempted to navigate the narrow, traffic-clogged channel.

He eyed the chrono on the car's dash. He was making faster time than expected. At this rate, he would be at the office within fifteen minutes.

"That doesn't help much, though, does it, son?"

Virgil snickered. _"No, Father, it doesn't. But I'll survive."_

Startled by the violent screech of tires and the unmistakable impact of metal against metal, Jeff Tracy threw up his arms to shield his face one second before another vehicle plowed into the passenger side of the Thunderbird Maxim. Its internal passive restraint system deployed, the Maxim spun in a circle, clipped another car, and took a second hard impact against its back fender. It came to rest against the cement border of the far right emergency lane.

The first thing Jeff Tracy heard beyond the horrible sounds of crashing cars, blaring horns, and screaming tires was his son's frantic voice.

_"Father! Father, answer me, please! What's happening?"_

"Ah! Ow. Virgil, there's been ... some kind of-" Jeff cringed as he heard three additional impacts. Screams of pain and cries for help rose from nearby vehicles. He coughed against the stench of spilled fuels, oils, and smoke. "-there's been a major accident. New York Throughway, on the Frohman Bridge!" The smoke thickened, forcing him to cough again. "Middle span, I think. There must be ... at least thirty cars, maybe more. Fog is too thick to see, but I'm hearing multiple collisions--chain reaction pile-up. Better get your brothers here, on the double."

_"I'm contacting base now,"_ Virgil said. _"What about you--how badly are you injured?"_

Jeff hit the driver's side door release. It took three tries but the portal finally popped open. "Get those 'birds moving, Virgil. I'm going to see what I can do."

_"Father, what about you?"_

A lie would help no one, so Jeff gave himself a swift once-over. "Bruised elbow and a few cuts, that's the extent of it. Alan's passive safety system worked perfectly. Get going, now. Get this rescue under way. I'll do what I can on this end."

_"F.A.B. Call if your situation changes. Thunderbird 5 out."_

Jeff zeroed in on the first emergency responder he saw, a young police officer with buzz-cut, brown hair and a decidedly green complexion. Judging by his nauseated expression and his noticeable aversion to approaching any of the cars, this was most likely his first major accident scene.

"I put out a call on my car radio," Jeff reported to the young officer. "International Rescue answered. I wasn't sure it would work, but they heard me. They're on their way. They'll need a place to land, won't they? Some place for a command post?"

Too impatient to deal with an overly helpful civilian, the officer patted Jeff on the back like a bothersome child, thanked him rather absently, and went back to directing emergency vehicles into the accident zone. He made no effort to act on Jeff's information.

The Tracy patriarch shook his head and muttered, "Idiot."

Scott would make the arrangements while en route. Meanwhile, Jeff dove back into the unimaginable tangle of vehicles and bridge parts, determined to do what he could for the survivors.

For the next twenty minutes, he moved from car to car, tending victims. He directed the mobile survivors toward the triage area set up on the northern end of the Frohman Bridge. Those who couldn't move, either due to injuries or restrictions caused by the debris, he tended as best he could until better-equipped personnel arrived.

He found a final survivor even as the first stiff winds of the morning fractured the dense fog on that section of the damaged bridge. Mid-30s, petite and blonde, the woman lay trapped behind the wheel of a blue Zephyr LX. The Zephyr was wedged beneath the remains of a transport drone--a very large and unstable block of twisted metal, electronics, and insulation.

Jeff eyed the drone as only an experienced engineer and the Commander of International Rescue could, with attention to every influential factor. He categorized materials, strength, stability, points of potential support, and possible angle of descent. He estimated the length (100 feet before the accident, not including the automated guidance capsule) and weight (empty would be 90 tons, with cargo--bioelectronics?--close to 140 tons).

Scowling, Jeff made a mental note to bring charges against the transport company. The Frohman Bridge wasn't built to carry vehicles anywhere near that heavy. That drone should never have been deployed along this route.

_It certainly isn't helping this woman's situation in any way,_ he thought. _Without that drone to slam into her from behind, she might not have been hurt at all._

A minimum ten tons of unstable debris perched above the smaller vehicle, groaning and shifting at the slightest movement of either the Zephyr or the stressed bridge below them. A single wind gust or subtle vibration from an approaching rescue vehicle's tires could bring everything down on their heads.

Even so, the woman was alive and moving. Jeff Tracy ducked under an overhang of debris, knelt down, and peered into the car.

Before he could ask about her condition, the woman whispered, "Children ... my-my children, they're ... in back. Please."

Lord, please no. Not children.

With great reluctance, Jeff activated his watch's pinpoint flashlight and angled the light behind the driver's seat. He expected to see small, lifeless bodies but instead met bright eyes opened wide with fear and confusion. By some miracle, the back seat area had sustained minimal damage. Safety straps held the three children in place. Other than a low roof and broken glass, a few cuts and a large, dark bruise on the oldest child's right cheek, they looked otherwise unharmed.

"I see them," he said for the mother's benefit. "They look fine. Hey, kids. Don't worry, we'll get you out as soon as we can."

"Go away," the oldest, a reed-slender girl of around eight years, commanded. "You're a stranger."

Jeff couldn't help but smile. Scott would have said something precisely like that at this age, a tiny terrier with the heart of a pit bull determined to protect his--or in this case, her--siblings.

"Yes, I am. But there's been an accident, and I'm here to help. My name is Jeff. Don't any of you worry, now. I heard someone say that International Rescue is coming. Won't that be fun? You can see the Thunderbird ships."

Noise from the crowd behind him swelled at mention of International Rescue.

The youngest, a girl around three years of age with light auburn ringlets that reached her waist and bright green eyes, burst out with, "T'underburz!" She giggled and clapped her hands, all traces of fear gone.

The mother's hand groped through the wreckage and grabbed Jeff's sleeve. He turned his attention back in time to hear her ask, "What--what's your ... full name?"

"Jefferson Tracy. You?"

"I thought I ... I recognized you." The woman groped for his hand and squeezed it tight. "I'm A-Amanda. Albright. Please, it-it hurts."

"I know. Rescue Services is here. Hold on, now. Someone has called International Rescue. They're on their way. They'll get you out in a jiffy."

The woman tried to smile and shook her head. "No. They won't."

"Yes, they will. This is precisely the type of accident that organization is designed for."

She lowered her voice so the children wouldn't hear. "I'm ... I'm crushed ... from the hips down. I ... I won't be leaving this car."

Jeff's heart plummeted. He lay flat on the ground, ignoring the gouge of metal and glass fragments into his body and the sting of his bruised elbow as he worked to see into the warped wreckage and assess her condition.

Her entire lower body was pulverized. The instant someone removed the pressure, she would bleed out within seconds. Not even the great machines of International Rescue could save this woman.

"My ... my children. Please, save them."

Leaving the woman alone was the hardest thing Jeff Tracy had done in years. Concentrating on the victims that could be saved, he used a loose plastisteel bar to prop up a flapping section of dangling wreckage closest to the back of the Zephyr and peeled away the passenger door's safety glass. This provided an opening large enough for three children to climb through.

"Kids? I need you to unbuckle your safety harnesses and come here. We need to get you out, okay?"

The eldest shook her head again, firmly. "No. We're staying with Momma."

The mother's voice came from the front seat, strong with parental control. "Megan. Do ... do everything this man ... tells you to do."

"Momma?"

"Do it, Meggie. Take ... take Troy and Kylee. Get them out. This car ... isn't safe. ... Get them away from here."

Megan's green eyes clouded with tears. Even at such a tender age, this little one suspected what was about to happen.

"But what about you, Momma?"

"Get your brother and sister ... out of this car, Megan Marie. Right now."

"Yes, Momma."

The eight-year-old unbuckled her seat belt and stood up, leaning at an awkward angle in the tilted back seat. She freed her brother next. After a final suspicious glance at Jeff, she guided the five-year-old boy through the window frame.

Getting Kylee out of the child seat was harder--its frame had been bent--but after a few loud grunts and hard tugs, she lifted the three-year-old free and passed her into Jeff's waiting arms.

Megan crawled through before Jeff had turned back from passing Kylee to one of the people standing behind him, waiting to help. Instead of joining her siblings, she wiggled until she lay directly beside the driver's side door, close enough to touch her mother's bloody hand.

"I'm here, Momma. Kylee and Troy are out of the car. They're okay."

Amanda Albright did her best to smile. Megan didn't smile back. Jeff looked away, unwilling to see the knowledge of impending death in the child's eyes.

"Jeff?"

"I'm still here, Amanda."

"Something told me ... you would be."

"You daughter is correct. The little ones are safe."

"From the wreck, maybe, but ... not safe. Please, I ... I know this will be asking a-a lot. My husband ... is not a nice man. Megan and Troy can tell you ... things ... horrible things ... I was leaving him ... today ... going to-to a ... a shelter. Now, I-I-I can't ... must save my children. Please, don't let them go back to him."

"I ... I'm not sure I understand. Are you saying their father abuses you? Abuses them?"

Amanda struggled to nod. Though in great pain, her eyes and her voice were clear as she pushed out her last desperate request.

"I recognize you ... Jeff Tracy. I ... I've heard how you ... help people. You have a ... a good heart. Please. I want you to take my children. Raise them. Protect them since I can't ... any longer."

Jeff reared back in surprise. _Jumping Jehosaphat! I certainly didn't see that coming!_

"Momma, you can't mean that!"

Amanda met her daughter's gaze. "Baby doll, I'm dying. No, now. None of that. You know it's true. I don't want to leave you, but God has other plans. This man is ... a good man. He won't hurt you or ... or the others. He'll protect you."

"From Daddy."

"Yes. From Daddy."

The girl touched her bruised right cheek with shaking fingertips. "Daddy won't knock me down anymore?"

Jeff studied the bruise on the girl's cheek. Her otherwise fair skin was a vivid purple-blue, with a distinct yellow-green edge. This was not a fresh injury. It had to be at least two or three days old. He saw clearly delineated knuckle marks on the hairline side of the discoloration.

_Something--someone--struck this child with a clenched fist hard enough to bruise her from temple to jaw line._

"No, sweetheart," Amanda promised. "He will never ... hit you again."

Megan tilted her head to study the older man. Jeff Tracy recognized an old spirit staring back at him. This child was growing up far too fast. Abuse had driven out any innocence that remained from her childhood.

"Is that true?" Megan asked. "You'll save us from Daddy?"

Jeff reached out to the child, slowly, giving her time to follow his movements. He would investigate this woman's claims and verify the abuse, if possible. Long experience--he was one of the world's wealthiest men, after all--posed the question: were Amanda Albright's accusations part of some desperate attempt to get money for her children? A man like Jeff Tracy didn't get to where he was without learning to be wary of other peoples' motives.

Should her accusations prove true, Jeff Tracy would find the children a new home with parents who would love and protect them. If her accusations proved false, he would back the father's rights 100 percent.

However it turned out, he would make certain the little ones were safe. That, at least, was an easy promise to both make and keep.

"I'll do everything I can to keep you safe," Jeff promised.

Megan nodded and said, "Okay."

The mother gripped her daughter's hand tight one last time, smiled again, and said, "Now, baby, go take care of your brother and sister. I need to talk to Mr. Tracy ... one last time."

Megan's eyes overflowed with tears. Before Jeff could stop her, Megan leaned through the wreckage and kissed her mother's cheek.

"I love you, Momma. For always."

"And I love you, Meggie. Tell ... tell Troy and Kylee ... when they're older."

"I will, Momma. I'll watch out for them forever and ever."

_So very much like Scott._ Jeff shivered with a distinct sense of déjà vu. _Scott said those exact same words to his dying mother so many years ago._

"I know you will, my baby."

_My God. The same response, as well. History repeats itself._

Megan kissed her mother's hand then slowly released it, backed away, and went over to where her siblings were being tended by other, luckier crash survivors.

At that moment, three emergency technicians arrived on the scene. The woman turned to tend to the children while the two men converged on Jeff and Amanda.

"Step back, sir, give us room."

Jeff tried to comply but Amanda held his hand in an unbreakable grip.

"Wait," she gasped. "I need ... witnesses."

"Miss, we need to-"

"I'm dying. I--I need witnesses to hear my ... dying statement. My husband ... Dillon Albright ... is an evil man. He abuses ... me ... the children. I do not ... want him to have ... custody. This man ... has agreed to become th-their guardian. This ... is what I wish. Please ... I want Je-Jeff Tracy ... to ha-have full custody of my children. ... He will ... keep them safe."

_Whoa-now! Wait just one moment!_ Jeff thought. _When did I agree to become their guardian?_

The EMTs stared at the victim, at each other, then at Jeff.

"Is this for real?" the taller, older, and heavier of the two men asked.

Jeff wasn't sure how to answer. If he denied the mother's dying request, he might condemn the children to the care of an abusive parent. But if she lied or misrepresented her husband, he might be responsible for terminating a fit father's parental rights.

Before he could make any decision on this matter, he needed to consult his family, particularly his sons. An even greater concern was International Rescue. Accepting custody of three young--and not likely to be discreet--children would certainly throw a wrench into the organization's security.

_The best I can do right now is hedge my bets. Admit to what I know and leave the rest to conjecture and personal opinion._

"The oldest child has a wicked bruise on her face. It's already starting to yellow, so it must be several days old. The girl says her father knocked her down."

"You're willing to take in," the EMT glanced over to count the children, "three kids?"

"I have five boys of my own, all grown. Three more would be no hardship."

"Lady, are you sure? How long have you known this man?"

"Don't you ... recognize him? Jefferson ... Tracy. The--ungh--the astronaut."

"Tracy? Tracy Enterprises?" the smaller of the EMTs stared at Jeff in awe. "Our department uses the air-powered extractor units your company designed for situations where electrical units could spark fumes or flammable gasses. We're using them at this scene, as a matter of fact."

Jeff nodded. He remembered the unit well. It was one of the first tools Brains ever designed for International Rescue. Tracy Enterprises had released the design for use by all branches of emergency service.

"Will you ... will you witness?"

The two EMTs nodded. Behind them, other voices spoke up, acknowledging her wishes.

Amanda Albright sighed and relaxed. Her children would be safe now. She could pass in peace. She squeezed Jeff's hand one last time, sighed out a final breath, and was gone.

Jeff stared at their joined hands--his still warm and firm, hers limp and growing cool. His boys witnessed this every day. How did they do it? How could they hold someone's hand, watch the life leave their body, and still remain sane?

The EMTs urged him away, even though they knew any chance to aid the woman was long passed.

Jeff knelt on the ground and gathered tiny Kylee to his chest. He tucked Troy tight against his left side and pulled Megan into a group hug. The younger children cried in confusion even as they held tight to him, but Megan bottled it up. She accepted his touch, his attempts to comfort, without letting herself break down.

_They do it because of the ones they don't watch die,_ he thought, _like these children. They do it for the ones they can save._

_Rest, Amanda Albright,_ he cast his thoughts toward the sky. _Whether it's with me, your husband, or with an anonymous but loving foster family, your children will be safe. You have my word._

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE: **Sheltering Arms

**AUTHOR: **Meercat

**RATING: **PG-13

**CATEGORY: **drama, angst

**SYNOPSIS:** TV-verse. Jeff finds himself responsible for three children. Will IR survive? Chapter 2, putting events in motion.

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, never were, but don't I wish. If they were mine, they'd still be on (an in) the air and a Certain Director would have never gotten his hands on them! Not making no money off this (drat and doubledrat!). All original Thunderbird characters and sets belong to Gerry Anderson. No copyright infringement is intended.

**SPOILERS:**None for the series, but there are references to my previous story, "Phoenix Rising." You don't have to read it to follow this one.

**SPECIAL THANKS:**A very special thanks to Sam Winchester, beta extreme!

**Chapter 2**

**Putting Events in Motion**

The hospital was a place of organized chaos. Jeff could think of no other term to describe it. He'd overheard three accident scene investigators discussing the situation. Over 300 cars, trucks and drones clogged the bridge. At last count, 87 people were dead and 226 were injured badly enough to require medical attention. Most of the victims--including Jeff and the Albright children--were being transported to Saint Catherine's Hospital.

Jeff himself had gotten off light with a bruised elbow, a few minor contusions, and abrasions. He'd been on the outer edge of the worst impacts. The people at the center of the disaster were found dead more often than not. Several miraculous rescues were attributed to the speedy arrival of International Rescue.

Thunderbird 1's slipstream had nearly knocked Jeff Tracy off his feet when it first arrived in the danger zone. Twelve minutes later, he felt the deep thrum of Thunderbird 2's landing retros as the freighter craft came down to earth.

Throughout the morning, before being transported to the hospital, he'd caught fleeting glimpses of his boys. Their distinctive blue, sashed uniforms made them easy to spot in a crowd.

While the hospital staff examined the children, Jeff stepped into a private corner and called Virgil. He needed a status report and wanted to reassure his anxious family that he was indeed unharmed.

_"Thank heavens you're all right,"_ Virgil said in place of a proper greeting. Virgil's expression of relief morphed into an anxious frown. _"Wait--is that a hospital bay behind you? Dad!"_

"I'm not hurt, son, I promise. How are Scott and the boys doing? I saw them arrive. Tell Scott he should be more careful with his slipstream. He nearly knocked me on my keester when he did his first recon fly-by. And who's piloting Thunderbird 2--Gordon, Alan, or John?"

_"Would I be this calm if_ Alan _had control of my 'bird?"_ Virgil smirked. _"It's Gordon. John and Alan are along to handle the Firefly and the Domo."_ Virgil's eyes darted up to the incident clock mounted on the panel above the visual pickup. _"Scott checked in nine minutes ago. The EMTs are so overwhelmed, he's personally escorting the last of the survivors to the hospital. The accident scene is pretty much at the mopping up stage. It shouldn't be too much longer before they can lock it up and go home."_

"Good. That's good." Reassured on that front, Jeff changed mental gears, saying, "Son, I want you to do something for me. Contact Fred Tabor. He should be at his office here in New York. Ask him to meet me in the ER of Saint Cat's as soon as possible. It's urgent."

_"Fred Tabor? Wait, isn't he-"_

"Yes, he's the lawyer who helped us put Erasmus Blake behind bars for the rest of his miserable life."

Jeff deliberately blocked memories of Erasmus Blake's trial and the terrible events that led up to it. The man had kidnapped, tortured, and shot Jeff's youngest son, Alan.(1) That horror was well and truly behind them. He had to deal with the here-and-now, starting with the legal ramifications of this morning's drama.

_"Why on earth would you need a lawyer right now? The accident ... Dad ... it wasn't your fault, was it?"_

"No, the accident wasn't my fault," Jeff groused. "One of the victims who died today left behind three minor children. Before she passed on, she made some pretty serious accusations against her husband and gave a dying declaration. Her claims need to be investigated. If they prove true, I want her wishes documented and observed. Fred Tabor is the best there is. I want him to handle the legal side of this situation. Call him for me, would you? Tell him to bring a camera and whatever forms he needs to document a dying declaration involving the custody and guardianship of three minor children."

_"Will do,"_ Virgil acknowledged. _"Dad, are you sure you're-"_

Jeff Tracy scowled at the face on his watch. "If you ask me if I'm all right one more time, I'll leave you on that station until your hair turns white!"

Virgil hastily relented. _"Okay, okay. No need to get nasty."_

Spotting one of the children's doctors in the corridor, Jeff whispered to his telecom, "I have to go. Send a car around to Saint Catherine's hospital, would you? I'll need a ride to the office as soon as we're finished here."

_"Will do. Thunderbird 5 out."_

Jeff stepped out of the shadows and caught the middle-aged, potbellied medic's attention. "Doctor Netherton?"

"Ahh, Mr. Tracy, there you are. Yes, I'm Jack Netherton, head of Emergency Pediatric Medicine here at Saint Cat's. The EMTs from the scene, Collins and Sawyer, tell me Amanda Albright gave permission before she died for you to authorize treatment for her three children."

Jeff controlled his sudden start of surprise. He hadn't given much thought to how far or how fast the mother's blessings might extend. He was so used to getting his way, it hadn't occurred to him that the doctors would question his right to provide medical consent for the children.

He wasn't about to look too closely at this unexpected gift, so he nodded and said, "Yes, she did. How are they?"

"Troy has a hairline fracture of the right radial bone, here, an inch or so above the wrist." The doctor indicated the location of the break by pointing to his own arm. "We've put it in a temporary brace. Once an orthopedic assistant becomes available, we'll apply a cast." Dr. Netherton smiled and rubbed the side of his nose. "He's already requested a green one."

"And the two girls?"

"The younger girl, Kylee, is asleep. There's not a scratch or a bruise on her. The car seat protected her from any injury. The older one, however-"

"Yes, I saw the bruises and cuts. Any other injuries?"

"Nothing physical, other than a few superficial bruises and some cuts from the glass. One cut on her hand needed three stitches--that was the worst of them. However, I am more concerned about her mental state. She seems to be ... cut off. Withdrawn." Netherton shrugged and rubbed the side of his nose once more. "It's understandable, I suppose, given the circumstances. Still, this is something I plan to keep a close eye on." The doctor studied Jeff's expressions quite closely. "Are you aware that the bruise on her face existed prior to the accident?"

"I guessed as much from the yellowing around the injury."

Netherton crossed his arms over his chest and met Jeff's gaze head on. "How long have you known the family?"

Jeff studied his watch, this time as a true timekeeping device. "All of three hours now. I was at the accident scene, one of the first victims, northern end of Frohman Bridge. I discovered the family trapped in their vehicle while helping to triage the wounded."

The doctor's eyebrows shot up. "Three hours--and you have parental authorization to treat?"

"More than that, Doctor. The mother made a dying declaration that names me as the children's guardian. My legal representative is on his way. According to the mother, the father is abusive. She said he was responsible for the bruise on Megan's face. The child confirmed it. Until I know the truth one way or another, I cannot leave three innocent children in questionable hands. Until I discover all of the facts of this matter, I will assume full responsibility for Megan, Troy, and Kylee Albright. Whatever care or needs they have, they get. Understand?"

"Abusive, you say?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, doctor, there is something you can do. I want a complete workup on all the children. I want every injury documented, old and new. I want to know about every bone they've ever broken, every bruise, every scar--anything you can find on them or in their past medical history that might indicate prolonged abuse. If what the mother said is true, I want proof to take to court. If her claims are false, I want proof of that, as well."

"Certainly, Mr. Tracy. If there's something there, I'll find it, you have my word on that."

Dr. Netherton bobbed his head, rubbed his nose one last time, and hurried back to his patients.

Jeff ducked back into the shadowy corner and activated his telecom. "Jeff Tracy to International Rescue, London. Come on, Penny."

Within a few moments, a sculpted face crowned by a wealth of perfectly coiffed blonde hair filled his watch face. In the background, he could see the maroon and gold walls and part of the ornate marble mantle of the Creighton-Ward Stately Manor.

A cultured voice rich with centuries of British aristocracy said, _"International Rescue, London. Lady Penelope speaking. How are you, Jeff?"_

"I've been better. Been worse, as well. Penny, could you do me a favor? I need all the information you can find on Dillon and Amanda Albright. The EMTs gave me her address--5942 Rosenberg Towers, number 2245, Manhattan. They have three children: Megan, age eight, Troy five, and Kylee three. Amanda died today in the Frohman Bridge disaster."

_"I saw the news broadcast. Since The Boys were there, I paid particular attention."_ Penny's gaze lingered on the scrapes along Jeff's jaw. _"Judging by your roughened appearance, I would say that you were in the thick of things."_

"Before she died, Amanda Albright claimed her husband was abusive to herself and the children. To protect them from further violence, she named me as their legal guardian. I don't know how well a person's dying wish will hold up in court, but before I do anything so drastic and irreversible as permanently accept responsibility for three small children, I want to know what's real and what's not."

_"Count on me, Jeff, dear. I will have a full report for you within the hour. International Rescue, London, signing off."_

"Thank you, Penny. I'll call you again as soon as I can. Jeff Tracy out."

No sooner had he lowered his arm than a voice behind Jeff called his name.

Fred Tabor wove his way through the bustling nurses, frenzied orderlies, confused patients, distraught relatives, stretchers, drug carts, wheelchairs, and other medical paraphernalia that filled the ER. A tall, wide-shouldered man only a few years younger than Jeff and just as well maintained, Tabor smiled and waved to Jeff in greeting.

"Fred, thank you for coming so quickly."

The lawyer accepted the Tracy patriarch's firm handshake.

"Anytime, Jeff. I must admit, I'm intrigued by the cloak an' dagger routine." Beneath his polished and professional voice lay hints of Tabor's original Texas drawl. "The details provided by your son were both sparse and mysterious."

"For good reason. Let's find someplace private to talk."

Jeff led Fred Tabor into the privacy of a small, glass-walled waiting area. Seated on the tiny room's only couch, he spent a half-hour explaining the events of the morning in precise detail.

He concluded by saying, "I have agents looking into Amanda Albright's claims. I should know something probative within the next one to two hours. I don't feel comfortable releasing the kids to someone else's care until I'm certain they will be safe with their father. I accept full responsibility, Fred. Tell me what I need to do."

Tabor thought hard for a long moment then asked, "This declaration ... it was duly witnessed?"

Jeff nodded. "Two emergency responders and several bystanders all heard her words." He handed over a sheet of notepaper. "Here are their names and contact information."

"Good," Tabor said as he slipped on a pair of pewter-framed glasses and read down the list of names, addresses, and preferred methods of contact. "Excellent. This'll help tremendously."

"My main concern is getting the proper legal documents in place before Dillon Albright learns what has happened," Jeff admitted to the lawyer. "I don't want him trying to take the children before I can make my decision either way."

"Jeff..."

"What's wrong?"

Tabor sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. Let me get the witness statements, a copy of the accident report, an' autopsy results. Once I have all the information, I'll be able to advise you better."

Fred Tabor slipped the contact list into his case.

"First off," the lawyer said, "I need to obtain affidavits from the witnesses and present them to a judge who can issue temporary guardianship to you."

"And second?"

"We'll need a full medical workup to determine the children's state of health an' to document any sign o' prior abuse."

"Already started. Dr. Jack Netherton is Head of Emergency Pediatric Medicine at this hospital. He'd already noted the aged bruise on Megan Marie's face. If there's something there, either on their bodies or in their medical records, he'll find it."

"Excellent. Now, third. After the children are released from the hospital, we need to get them to a location where Dillon Albright can't easily find you. Stay in the city--we don't want to give the appearance of spiriting the children away. Just make his access to them as difficult as possible."

The smile on Jeff Tracy's face was anything but gentle. "That I can do."

As he pulled various electronic pads out of his black leather attaché case, Fred Tabor glanced at Jeff and asked, "Jeff, what do you know about the Parental Declaration Act, more commonly known as Monica's Law?"

Jeff searched his memory, frowning until he found a faint recollection. "Not much, I'm afraid."

"It bears a striking similarity to this case. Clara Ohm was in a multi-car accident, a pile-up on a fogged-in freeway. Again, eerily similar to your own experience, only hers happened in California. She'd been in the process of divorcing her husband an' had two restraining orders against him, claiming battery an' assault on both herself and their ten-year-old daughter, Monica. As she lay dying in the wreckage, she made a verbal statement to everyone around. She wanted her best friend to take guardianship of the daughter, not her husband, the child's biological father. Clara Ohm died before she reached the hospital. The case moved through the courts for over two years before a judge awarded custody of the child to the father, citing that a previous written statement by the mother took precedence."

The details sparked Jeff's memory. He snapped his fingers and nodded.

"I remember now. Only a few months later, the child nearly died from a beating."

"She survived but was partially paralyzed. When she grew up, Monica Ohm lobbied long and hard. She finally helped to pass Monica' Law, which gives precedence to death statements like her mother's in cases where abuse, criminal activity, or negligence is present."

"'Present'," Jeff sighed. "Not 'suspected'."

Fred sighed and shrugged. "That's where we may run into trouble. As far as we know, there's no evidence against Dillon Albright other than the mother's dying declaration an' a few highly circumstantial injuries that could be attributed to accident or misfortune. We have two good things going for us. There are plenty of witnesses to Amanda Albright's dying declaration. This includes both her verbal statements and her state of mind at the time of her death."

"Meaning?"

"She wasn't delusional or suffering from a debilitating head injury." Tabor glanced toward Jeff for confirmation. "She wasn't, was she? Suffering from a head wound?"

"No, Fred. There was no blow to her head, not even a tiny cut. All of her injuries were from the waist down." Jeff reassured him. "You said there were two good things in our favor. What is the second?"

Tabor grinned at Jeff Tracy over the top of his half-moon reading glasses. "Your money."

Startled into laughter, Jeff Tracy leaned back in his chair and stared out through the glass walls of the small waiting room. Beyond them, he spotted Megan Albright tucking the blankets tighter around little Kylee even as she sang a soft song to calm Troy, who from the looks of things had decided he didn't want a heavy old cast after all.

(1) see my story, "Phoenix Rising"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**T'underburz!**

"Oh, dear. I think I better get over there."

Fred Tabor followed Jeff's eyes. Other than harried hospital personnel, hurting patients, frantic relatives, and exhausted rescue crews, he couldn't see what had alerted the Tracy patriarch. The lawyer said as much.

"It seems that young Troy has decided against the cast," Jeff reported as he opened the door to the glass waiting room. As the door snicked closed behind them, Jeff turned back to Fred. "There is one last thing I'd like you to investigate for me. Amanda Albright's car was struck by an automated class 12D transport drone loaded with approximately 50 tons of bioelectronic parts."

Tabor's bushy eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. "A vehicle that heavy was on the _Frohman Bridge_?"

"You see what I'm after, then. This whole tragedy, at least as far as the Albright family is concerned, might have been avoided if that drone hadn't been where it wasn't allowed. Check into it when you review the accident report, would you?"

"Will do, Jeff. You've given me a lot to do in a short amount of time, so I'd best get to it."

In the treatment cubicle, Troy let loose a particularly loud, long, high-pitched scream and slapped one of the nurses with his good arm. His heels pounded the gurney and unmade the temporary bedding. Jeff sighed and Fred grinned.

Tabor jerked a thumb in the children's direction. "Good luck with that."

"Looks like I'll need it," Jeff replied.

The two men exchanged goodbyes and separated.

Jeff stepped up to the partially curtained treatment cube that held the Albright children. Kylee was curled up under a pale blue thermal blanket, sound asleep despite her brother's hysterics. Megan sat beside her sister on the treatment gurney, eyes focused on something deep and far away.

Troy occupied the second gurney. He held two nurses at bay with wildly swinging arms and kicking feet.

"Ladies," Jeff greeted the exasperated, disheveled nurses, "if you'll give me a few minutes, I'll see what I can do."

The women gratefully left the handsome, silver-haired gentleman to deal with the frenzied boy.

Jeff leaned against the wall, crossed his ankles, folded his arms--_Ouch, the elbow still smarts_--and watched Troy throw his hissy fit. When Jeff didn't say anything for a good two minutes, Troy stopped yelling long enough to glower his way.

Catching the five-year-old's gaze, Jeff shrugged and said, "I can wait."

"I don't _wanna_ cast!" Troy wailed. He clutched his right arm tight against his chest and hunched over until he more closely resembled a frightened armadillo than he did a little boy. Round, fat tears dripped off his cheeks. "Momma! I want Momma!"

He fell onto the bed and cried into his pillow.

Jeff sat on the gurney and lifted Troy into his arms. Inwardly squirming with discomfort, Jeff hugged the little boy to his chest, stroked his hair, and crooned soft, wordless sounds of comfort. It had been well over twelve years since he had last cuddled a child, and that had been one of his own. It felt odd to console someone else's progeny, but basic human compassion would not let him abandon Troy to grieve alone.

Once the tantrum settled into an occasional hiccupping sniffle, Jeff opted for a time-tested form of distraction. "I'd like to show you a picture, Troy."

Shifting enough to reach his jacket pocket, Jeff pulled out his Blackberry Prime, scrolled through the images stored there, and presented his find to Troy. On the small screen, Virgil, Scott, and Alan stood on Tracy Island's public runway, their clothing stained with lubricants from their respective Thunderbird craft (though it was staged to appear as if they'd been working on Tracy One, visible in the background). Gordon had taken the picture two days after the International Rescue mission in Turkey where Virgil had injured his arm, as evidenced by the bright blue sling and heavy bandage from shoulder to mid-forearm.

"That's my second son, Virgil. He has his arm in a sling right this very moment, see?" Jeff said. "He hurt his arm in an accident last week. It's not a cast, but the bandage is almost as thick as one. Maybe once you have your cast, Virgil can tell you how it happened."

Troy wiped moisture from his face with the back of his hand, took the Blackberry from Jeff, and studied the picture.

"Is that the ocean?"

Jeff tilted the screen to look at the photo again. A sliver of pristine, blue-green water and a hint of sandy beach were visible at the end of the runway.

"Yes, it is. My main home is on an island in the South Pacific."

Troy's eyes grew impossibly round.

"You live on an _island_? With sand and trees and rocks and fishing and swimming and--and boats and _everything_?"

"That's right. All that and a lot more."

Attracted by the conversation, Megan left Kylee's bedside. She took the device from Troy despite his whining protests and studied the picture for herself.

"Who are they?" she asked.

Jeff pointed to each son in turn. "This is Scott, my eldest. He used to fly fighter jets in the Air Force. Virgil is the one with the sling. He's a pilot, as well, and an engineer. He builds the most fantastic machines you can imagine. The blond is my youngest, Alan. He races cars. Wins more often than not."

"How many kids do you have?" Megan asked.

"Five. Scott, Virgil, John, Gordon, and Alan."

Megan held the Blackberry in one hand while the other fretfully twisted her shirt hem. "Will there be room for us all in your house?" she asked. "Daddy ... Daddy was always mad because we couldn't have a house big enough for everyone."

"There is all the room on the world, dear girl," Jeff said. "Space will not be a problem."

"Are you sure?" Megan did not appear the least bit reassured. "I mean, Troy and Megan are small. They can share a bed and I don't mind sleeping on the floor in their room and we don't eat much, I promise. And-"

"Megan, dearheart." Jeff patted her shoulder and felt her fearful trembling. "There's no need to be afraid."

Part of him wanted to come right out and tell Megan that she and her siblings would stay with him forever, that he would always be there for them, that his own boys would come to view them as part of the family. The other part whispered, say nothing, wait. Don't let yourself get too close--you may have to give them up to another family.

_How did they get into my heart so quickly? I want to plunge right in and become a proper parent to them, but how fair would that be to my blood children? I have little enough time to give them as it is--would it be fair to divide myself still further? I remember how much attention children this age require in a given day._

_Speaking of that, who would tend them while I'm busy, either with Tracy Enterprises or with International Rescue? Grandma would be willing, I don't doubt--she practically raised my brood all by herself after Lucy died--but she's over 80 years old. One little one would be taxing for a woman her age--three would kill her._

_Tin-Tin could help, I suppose, but do I have the right to pile that responsibility on her, in addition to all the work she does for the family, for Brains, and for the organization?_

_And IR--that alone is a major consideration in all of this._

_Yet ... I can't look Megan in the eye and say a word that will leave her feeling adrift or disconnected. In the last three hours, her world has turned upside down, inside out, and sideways. I am her only anchor. I simply cannot disillusion her about her future or plant doubts as to who they will eventually come to live with--her father, another relative, myself, or an as-yet-unknown foster family._

_God, what a mess._

An orthopedic assistant ventured into the cube, her steps small and tentative. Jeff met her eyes and read the question, is the coast clear, the tantrum ended?

"So, young man," Jeff said to Troy. "Think you're ready for that cast now? This lovely nurse can have it done in a jiffy."

Troy screwed up his face, about to start screaming once more. Jeff tilted the Blackberry, still in Megan's hand, to show him the picture again. Troy broke off mid-whine, frowned in heavy thought, then sighed and surrendered.

The cast was on in short order. The assistant finished the work then left them alone. Once the plaster dried, they could be released from the ER.

A few minutes later, a sleepy coo rose from the next bed. Jeff looked over at Kylee. The child's hand wormed from under the blanket and pointed toward something near the ER bay doors.

"T'underburz."

Jeff followed the little girl's sleep-slowed gesture. She had indeed spotted the famous open-hand logo on Scott's smudged uniform sash. The IR field commander--sooty, grease-stained, and watered down, his uniform spattered with biologicals and fire suppressant foam--escorted the last two victims pulled from the chain-reaction pile-up by International Rescue.

Jeff met his eldest son's blue eyes. The contact was brief but comforting for both men, a reassurance that all was well.

Once he surrendered the survivors into the doctors' care, Scott couldn't resist coming over to see the child his father held so tenderly in his lap.

_Gracious but he's filthy,_ Jeff thought, _and he reeks of Brains' special flame retardant foam, spilled fuel, and God alone knows what else. I suppose I should be grateful--he's definitely camouflaged. The hospital's security cameras can't get a clear picture of him._

"Hey, there, son," Scott said to Troy. "How are you?"

"'m okay! You're a Thunderbird!"

"T'underburz," Kylee pipped, still mostly asleep.

Scott laughed and nodded, quite obviously enchanted by the little ones. "I'm with International Rescue, yes. And my ship is a Thunderbird."

As Jeff opened his mouth to introduce the children, he spotted the Blackberry still in Megan's hands. She looked at the image, at Scott, and back down at the picture. He could practically see the wheels turning in the girl's mind.

_Oh dear. In hindsight, showing off the family photos wasn't such a smart thing to do._

Without saying a word, Megan powered off the device and passed it back to Jeff. He shoved it back into his pocket, the action covered up by everyone who wanted to have a moment of Scott's time.

It never failed. Wherever International Rescue went, a certain type of mixed crowd always followed. Some people wanted nothing more than to speak to them for a few moments, to thank them or to honor them for their selfless, heroic acts. Others sought to benefit from IR's presence, either socially, personally, politically, or financially.

Celebrity worship at its finest--or worst, depending on the circumstances.

Fortunately, one of the nurses called hospital security to break up the growing congestion that threatened to block the corridors of the emergency room. Once the agents in the white-and-black security uniforms had dispersed the crowd, Scott heaved a sigh of relief and turned back to his father.

Troy held up his plastered right arm, wrapped in florescent green gauze, and said, "I have a cast."

"Yes, I see that, and a fine cast it is, too," Scott said. "I've had some good ones in my time, but never one as great as this."

Troy preened under the compliment, stroking his cast as he might a well-trained pet.

"Is everything all right?" Jeff asked.

Mindful of the public venue, Scott kept his answers deliberately general but clear enough so that his father could figure it out.

"The rescues are completed. All that remains is cleanup and accident investigation. International Rescue has done all it can. We'll be leaving within the next ten minutes."

A tiny gasp from Megan brought Jeff's attention to the oldest child. He frowned, noticing her dilated pupils, hunched shoulders, trembling body, and wringing hands. Every trace of healthy color drained from her face and neck.

Without hesitation, Jeff stepped to her side of the gurney and drew Megan to him.

"Megan, honey. What's wrong?"

"It's him," she whispered, her voice quaking with alarm. "He's here."

"Who is here?"

"Daddy. There. By the outside door."

Tensed, Jeff Tracy scanned the crowd. He spotted a man with a disheveled thatch of auburn hair the exact same shade as little Kylee's gorgeous ringlets. The man wasn't bulky or muscular, but he moved with jerky, hard movements that spoke of no patience and a poorly restrained temper.

This would be the perfect opportunity to meet the father, size him up, and determine the truth or lie of Amanda Albright's dying words. Perfect, that is, except for Megan's undeniable panic.

"You said he would never knock me down again," Megan murmured into Jeff's jacket pocket. "You promised."

"Yes, Megan. I promised. And I meant it." Jeff turned to his son. In a low voice meant only for his eldest, the Commander of International Rescue ordered, "Scott, get on with Virgil. Have him pull up the hospital's floor plans. Find us a way out of this emergency room and order the car to the closest exit point that he can find other than the ER doors."

Now was obviously not the best time to ask questions or request details. Scott simply said, "F.A.B." and activated his telecom.

Jeff bundled a drowsy Kylee in her blanket, careful to cover all trace of her distinctive hair, and lifted her off the hospital bed. Scott did the same for Troy. The boy whined and struggled against the confinement until Megan hissed, "Daddy's here."

The five-year-old fell still and silent, a glaring sign of that family's secret nightmare.

Virgil's voice over Scott's telecom guided them through the hospital corridors, including a long, narrow service tunnel. From high in orbit, Thunderbird 5 hacked into the hospital's network, providing overrides and pass codes to various security doors. With that help and a large dose of good luck, the small party passed through the building unhindered.

Albright's yells attracted the attention of the hospital security agents still present in the ER. He wasted several minutes extricating himself from them and finding his way back to the outside.

Dillon Albright ran through the doors and onto the sidewalk moments after Scott slammed the door on the black stretch limo and watched it drive away. The man punched the air and blistered the air with curses.

The field commander of International Rescue smirked and slipped silently away.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** It may be short, but this is without question my favorite chapter so far. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

br

**Chapter 4**

**Grandma Knows Best**

Typically, the Tracy boys used the flight time from danger zone to Tracy Island to unwind, to decompress inside their own minds. They were often too exhausted to spend much time chatting amongst themselves.

That day's flight from New York to the island was quite different. From the pilot's chair of Thunderbird 1, Scott first contacted Gordon, at the helm of Thunderbird 2, with John and Alan chiming in from the passenger seats. He then pulled Virgil into the conversation from his station up on Thunderbird 5.

Scott quickly filled them in on what little he knew about the situation. They talked (and often laughed) about their father's predicament the entire flight home, pausing only long enough to land and post-flight their machines and equipment. Leaving the nano-mechs to complete servicing of the craft, the four planet-bound brothers headed for the house.

They were still rehashing the details when they entered the lounge. Grandma Tracy, busy shelling a fresh supply of green beans in her rocker beside the vid screen, perked up when she heard the news. Kyrano, Jeff's loyal manservant, and his daughter Tin-Tin entered from the kitchen, while Brains, International Rescue's resident genius, joined them from his lab.

"Three children, you say? My Jeff?" Grandma asked for the benefit of those who'd remained on the island throughout the rescue. "I can't have heard you right."

Scott repeated the story for the umpteenth time. Grandma set her chair to rocking as everyone found seats.

Bemused and tickled, she shook her head and said, "Well, I certainly would never have taken a bet on that ever happening. I'd've thought having had a boisterous lot like you five boys, he'd have his fill of little ones."

"He didn't exactly have a choice, Grandma." Scott shrugged. "He was there when the mother died. Her dying request was for him to keep her kids safe."

Grandma's rocker came to a sudden, wood-cracking halt. She focused gimlet eyes on her eldest grandson.

"A dying declaration? She named Jeff as their guardian?"

"Well, uh, yes. I think that's what happened. Father knows more about the actual details than--what? Grandma, what?"

Grandma Tracy carefully set her bowl of partially shelled beans on the side table and gathered up loose strings and empty hulls in her apron. "Where is he?"

Scott blinked, confused by the apparent non sequitur. "Um, Father's taken them to his apartment in Tracy Towers. The kids' dad shouldn't be able to get to them before this all can be resolved, one way or another."

Grandma clapped her hands together, stood up, removed her hull-laden apron, and laid it inside the bowl.

"All-righty, then. We have a lot of work ahead of us and only a little time to do it in."

The four brothers looked at each other. Alan finally popped up, "Work, Grandma?"

"Why, child-proofing the house, of course," Grandma answered as though stating the obvious. "First of all, they'll need a place to sleep, rooms of their own. Tin-Tin, you take care of that. We can convert the guest bedrooms into a nursery and a playroom. They'll need furniture, clothing, toys, books." Grandma threw her arms up in the air and sighed. "Order anything they'll need off the household account. You know what they'll need as well as I do."

Tin-Tin stared at Alan. He could only shrug, his confusion mirroring her own.

Seeing that some kind of answer was expected, Tin-Tin swallowed and said, "I do? I mean, yes, I do, but-"

Having confirmed acceptance of her marching orders, Grandma moved on to her next target. "We'll need to childproof the cabinets and doors. Brains, you put key code locks on the outside doors and on all the labs and storage areas. Don't forget to lock up the sick room supplies and anyplace else where curious hands'll find mischief. Can't have the little ones getting in where they're not supposed to."

Scott made another valiant but hopeless attempt to stop the approaching train wreck, but there were some disasters that could not be avoided. Grandma Tracy at full power was one such unstoppable juggernaut.

"But Grandma-"

The Tracy matriarch plowed forward, a head full of steam and ideas and determination that no Tracy man, however strong-willed or domineering, could ever hope to overcome.

"Gordon, we don't know yet if these little ones can swim, so to be safe, I want you and Alan to put a fence around the pool and across the paths down to the beach. And do the path to the Overlook while you're at it--that area is far too dangerous for little ones. The gates to all those'll need key code locks, so work with Brains on that. John and Scott, you're responsible for adding handrails along all the stairs and helping out where muscle is needed. I'll put the kitchen to rights."

Kyrano blinked and tried to intervene, "But, Mrs. Tracy-"

Reminded of her son's manservant, Grandma turned her attention his way. "Kyrano, you help Tin-Tin and settle the other public areas of the house. I'll be along to help you soon as I'm finished with the kitchen and storage areas. The youngest is three, you say?" She asked of Scott. When he nodded, numb from the onslaught, she said, "Good, good. At least we won't have to pad corners for a toddling little one. They can be reasoned with at that age, at least a bit."

Scott caught the little woman by her shoulders and held her still long enough to catch her attention. "Wait, wait. Grandma, stop! You don't seriously think Father will bring them to the island, do you?"

"Well, of course he will. Where else would they stay except here with us?"

"Ummmm, with a foster family?" John offered. He received a lethal glare for daring to suggest such a thing.

"Father won't risk the security of International Rescue," Scott insisted, "and that's what he'd be doing if he brought those children here. I mean, they're adorable, and sweet, and one look at them melts your heart, but when everything is said and done, the risk is just too great. He'll find them a good foster family and keep tabs on them to make sure they're safe and happy, but he won't adopt them himself."

"You know what the headlines will read," John added. "'Billionaire Jefferson Tracy Expands his Empire Times Three' or 'Three Children Lose Mom but Gain Tracy Fortune'."

"That's right," Scott pointed at John to stress the point. "The publicity alone would bring too big a spotlight on the family. It's hard enough for five wealthy, eligible sons and one still handsome widower to dodge gold diggers and paparazzi."

"Face it, Grandma," Gordon said. "You said it yourself when Alan was little--there are three sure-fire ways to reveal a secret: televid, telecom, and tellakid. Father will most likely send them to Lady P. She'll know someone who wants children or can find someone who will take them in."

When Alan didn't chime into the objections, Grandma turned toward him and said, "Well, add your piece, then. Don't be so tongue-tied."

Alan shrugged and leaned back against Virgil's snowy white grand piano. "Hey, I don't think he'll do it, either, but if he did, I wouldn't object. At least I won't be the youngest any longer."

"Alan, a big brother." Scott heaved a huge sigh and shook his head. "That'll be one for the books. Thank goodness it'll never happen."

Grandma Tracy glared at the half-circle of young men, all a good two feet taller and many pounds heavier than herself, and stared them down. Brains, Tin-Tin, and Kyrano had already shown great wisdom and disappeared from the room.

"Now you listen to me, the lot of you." She stabbed a stiff finger in each grandson's direction. "He will bring them here, sure as the sky is blue. Mark my words on that. And when he does, he's going to find us ready. Now get to work. Scoot," she shooed them toward the nearest exit, "before I put a boot to your backsides."

Hustled along, the boys were almost out of the lounge when a soft chime brought everyone to a sudden halt. They turned to face the wall of portraits, where Jeff Tracy's five sons stared out of the frames. The eyes of Virgil's painting flashed yellow.

Responding to the alert, Scott hurried to his father's desk and pressed a hidden button.

"Tracy Island. Go ahead, Virgil."

Virgil's painted image vanished, replaced by a live image of his auburn-haired brother from the International Rescue satellite.

_"Looks like we have a tough one, Scott. A pleasure cruise along the Louisiana coast lost its navigational controls during a sudden storm. It's wedged in the trees of a cypress swamp, held in place by high tide. Tidal currents and tropical storm-force winds are hampering rescue efforts. What that boat was doing sightseeing in that kind of weather, I'll never know. The Coast Guard officer in charge reports that the tour boat's hull is damaged--when the high tide recedes, the boat will come loose from the trees, settle onto the damaged hull, and take on water. It will sink like a rock. Local rescue crews can't get to them, so the Coast Guard and the Governor of Louisiana have asked for our help."_

"Okay. Tell them we're on our way." Scott cheered, "Thank-you-Virgil!"

Virgil, unaware of Grandma's machinations, blinked in confusion. Since when was he thanked for signaling an alert? All he could say was, _"Um. You're welcome?"_

"I'll call for details once I'm in the air. Okay, everyone, let's go." To his grandmother, Scott shrugged and said, "Big rescue, Grandma. Gotta go."

"Wait, Scott, I-"

"All of us," John added.

"But-"

"All hands needed," Gordon said.

"What about-"

Alan capped them all with, "Love you, Grandma!"

Each man pressed a fast kiss to her cheek and hurried off to their respective Thunderbirds. As the last one vanished through a wall or down a hallway, she called after them, "That's it, go ahead. Leave an old woman to do all the work. See if you get any apple pie with dinner tonight!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Bottoms Up**

Virgil couldn't decide whether to laugh or to gasp in horror.

_"You're joking, right, Scott?"_

"I'm as serious as a heart attack," Scott said as he adjusted Thunderbird 1's trim to gain a few extra notches of speed. "Grandma was marshalling everyone, and I do mean everyone, to start major renovations on the island. She wants to turn the two guest rooms into a nursery and a playroom, and put up fences and gates around the pool and at every trail leading to the overlook or the beach. I kid you not, Virgil, it is unbelievable. You are so lucky you're on duty in space."

_"I'm starting to see that. Doesn't she realize? Father would never do anything to jeopardize our security."_

Scott shrugged. "We tried to tell her, but you know Grandma. Once she sinks her teeth into something-"

_"-there's no tearing her loose from the idea. Yeah, I know. What are you going to do?"_

"What can I do?" Scott hitched his left shoulder in a half-shrug, the best he could do while flying. As much as he loved his Thunderbird, even Scott had to admit she demanded a delicate, attentive hand at the controls, especially at top speed. "We can stretch out this rescue, the post-mission cleanup, and debriefing. If we play the two-missions-in-one-day card, we might put Grandma off until tomorrow. Whatever delaying tactics we use, the work will still be waiting. If anything, it would give her time to add even more jobs to the list. It's best all around to just get it over with."

_"Bite the bullet like a man, eh?"_

Scott scowled as his brother's smiling image on the tiny dash screen. "You're laughing at us, aren't you?"

Virgil snickered. _"Damn straight. It's not often I can sit back, put my heels up, and watch you boys--especially John--get a taste of Grandma's task switch."_

"You know what they say about payback, don't you?"

_"I've met her a time or two, yes."_

"You'll be meeting her again as soon as you come back to earth. Gordon will see to it. Personally."

_"Ow. I'm doomed."_ Virgil cringed and waved an imaginary flag of surrender. _"Okay, okay, uncle. No more teasing. Besides, you're now five minutes to danger zone. We should probably get to work."_

"That's the best idea you've had all day."

_"From the looks of it," _Virgil reported as he examined a scanner out of Scott's line-of-sight, _"Thunderbird 2 is 16.5 minutes behind you. Hmmmmph. I'd've had the distance down to 10 minutes, myself."_

"You're bragging, and that's never pretty."

_"It might be bragging, but that doesn't mean it isn't true."_ Virgil shifted back to work mode. _"Latest weather report. The storm front that pushed the cruiser into trouble has moved north-northeast. Conditions are windy--average 38-to-40 from the southwest, gusts to 55. You'll have wind and humidity, but you won't have to deal with poor visibility, driving rain, or lightning."_

"That's good news. The rescue platform's stabilizing thrusters can handle that level of wind easily enough. Anything else?"

_"Captain Thibodaux of the Coast Guard vessel Ravenswood will meet you at the command point. I've briefed him on the need for an armed security detail for Thunderbird 1. He'll have the immediate rescue details for you."_

"F.A.B. Keep an ear out, Virgil. We'll call if we need you. Thunderbird 1 out."

_"Will do, Scott. Thunderbird 5 listening out."_

TB TB TB

Jeff Tracy instructed the driver to take them straight to Tracy Towers. With that done, he settled the medical bill via the car's vid phone. He spent an additional five minutes reassuring a senior hospital administrator that their hasty exit from the emergency room did not mean Jeff found any fault with the facility's care or security.

Arriving at Tracy Towers, he carried Kylee and shepherded the other two through the corporation's private entrance in the lowest garage. With only a brief stop at the Security office on the first floor and a short discussion with Mason Fielding, the building's Head of Security, Jeff headed for the private penthouse apartment on the 170th floor.

In his private apartment at the top of Tracy Towers, Jeff Tracy sat around the dinner table with his three charges and wondered for the thousandth time how he'd ended up responsible for three young children.

On the table lay debris from a messy but filling meal of Super-Mega-Meat Supreme Pizza, double cheese, with garlic bread sticks on the side. The only items to come from the apartment's kitchen were the unsweetened tea, silk napkins, bone china plates, and crystal cups.

_If we order pizza ever again, _Jeff noted to himself, _remember, no anchovies. Kylee cries when she sees one. She doesn't want the little fishes to die so she can eat. And make sure we get plenty of plastic plates and cups. We didn't break anything tonight, but there were several close calls._

"Can we watch television?" Troy asked.

"Are you finished eating?"

Troy patted his bulging middle with his Day-Glo green cast and stuck his stomach out. "Stuffed." After a hiss and glare from Megan, Troy slumped back in his chair and said, "Yes, sir. We're done eating."

"Then go wash your hands--there's a half-bath through that door there--then you can go into the lounge. Remember, don't get the cast wet."

Jeff pushed away from the table. Seeing Megan gathering pizza boxes and uneaten crusts, he said, "Megan, you don't have to clean up."

"Sir?"

"When I stopped by the Security office this afternoon, I asked them to call in my housekeeping team. They'll clean up the mess, stock the kitchen with perishables like eggs, breads, and meats, put sheets on the beds, and bring clothes for the three of you to wear."

With visible reluctance, Megan abandoned the dinner mess and followed Jeff away from the table. A fluting laugh from Kylee and the sound of splashing water set the older girl running for the half-bath.

Troy exited the wash area, leaving Megan to dry Kylee's hands on a plush white terry hand towel. Jeff handed over the entertainment center's remote control to the boy.

"Here is the remote. Push that button there to turn it on, these to-"

Troy rolled his eyes as only a five-year-old could and trotted off, remote in hand, muttering under his breath, "Like I can't figure out how to use a 'mote."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy." Megan ducked her head and shrank in on herself, shoulders bowed and head slumped. Her hands wrung the hem of her shirt into a creaking knot. Kylee ducked past Jeff and hopped down the double-steps into the den. "I've been trying to teach him not to say things like that, especially when he might get bopped for it, but he can be stubborn sometimes. Please don't-"

Picking up on the girl's distress--_did she really think a sassy attitude would earn her brother a slap?_--Jeff smiled, tilted her chin up until she would look at him, and said, "I have five boys of my own, remember? Mouthy is the least of the ways I would describe them. My youngest, Alan, is especially sour-faced when his abilities are questioned. Troy is not in any trouble, I promise."

Megan relaxed slightly but Jeff could tell she wasn't totally convinced.

_Good Lord, what their life must be like, to leave a child terrified of punishment for a little cheeky talk._

"T'underburz! Meggie, come look! It's T'underburz!"

Hearing Kylee's gleeful shout, Jeff and Megan stepped down into the mahogany-paneled, luxuriantly furnished den. The 72-inch, wall-mounted flat screen was on, set to a news broadcast. The news anchor, Teresa Rawlins, sat at the desk. The extended-hand logo of International Rescue filled a vid screen behind her. The Instant World News logo showed in the bottom right corner of the screen.

_"To recap tonight's breaking news story, the United States Coast Guard and Laura Tyler, Governor of Louisiana, have requested help from International Rescue. After their spectacular work at the multi-car pileup on the Frohman Bridge in New York, this would make International Rescue's second operation today. More on that tragic event later in the newscast."_

Troy and Kylee moved closer together, brother cuddling sister with his good arm. Megan hugged herself and looked away, shiny moisture in her green eyes. Memories of the morning's terror and the loss of their mother momentarily took the pep out of the young ones.

Unable to think of a single comforting thing to say or do, Jeff sat quietly and let the news play on.

_"From what we have been able to discover,"_ the beautiful blonde news anchor continued her recap, _"a tourist cruiser, the Nightlight, ran aground in a sudden, unexpected storm off the Gulf of Mexico this afternoon. Their hull is pierced and they are trapped, held afloat by a fragile stand of cypress trees. The tide is receding. Once the Gulf waters pull back, the boat--with its mortally pierced hull--will fall back into the water and sink. The Coast Guard states there are somewhere between ten and twenty people on board, most of them elderly passengers on a sight-seeing tour of the Louisiana Gulf Coast."_

Kylee squealed and bounced on her bottom, breaking the somber mood of her siblings. The move dislodged her brother's arm from her shoulders. She smiled up at Jeff and stabbed a chubby finger at the IR logo.

She chirruped, "T'underburz!"

"Kylee, hush." Megan waved her sister down. "Let him listen."

_"Our special correspondent, Morgan Roberts, is on his way via boat down the coast. Once International Rescue arrives, we will not be able to provide a live video feed, but we will give you as much audio commentary as possible."_

Megan stared at Jeff as though waiting for him to do something. After a long moment of her undivided attention, Jeff returned her gaze and asked, "Is something wrong, Megan?"

"Aren't you going to ... like, call in? Find out what's happening?"

For an instant, Jeff thought to play dumb. It was a long-established habit to dissemble, misdirect, and deny any connection to International Rescue. In this case, it would be pointless. Megan had seen Scott on Jeff's Blackberry and in person, clad head-to-toe in his International Rescue uniform.

"I am tempted, that's the truth of it." Jeff eyed his innocent seeming 'watch.' He deliberately rested his wrist on the chair's velvet-upholstered arm. "They know what they're doing. They don't need me to interrupt them. I'll get a report later."

TB TB TB

Scott set Thunderbird 1 down on a narrow asphalt bridge that spanned one of the area's numerous tributaries. He wasn't much pleased with the choice of landing places, and he wasn't altogether certain a road meant to carry cars could hold his ship's weight, but it was the best they had to work with. Dense plant growth, bayou conditions, and unstable rocky outcroppings made this the best open space nearest to the rescue site.

As the lift lowered with himself and Mobile Control, Scott studied the area. Cypress trees clogged the waterways in every direction. The recent storm had churned up trash, debris, and silt, leaving the salt/fresh water mix a bizarre, rusty clay color.

_No place for Thunderbird 2 to set down, _IR's field commander reckoned. _If I decide to join the rescue instead of man Mobile Control from here, they'll have to hoist me upstairs._

The noise was as loud as it was unexpected. Frogs croaked, birds called, gators hissed, and a million insects buzzed, whirred, clicked, and clacked. First the storm then the presence of humans with their giant machines had thrown the local fauna into a tizzy. Egrets and herons flew inland to escape the excitement even as snakes slid out of sight in the undergrowth.

Scott choked, attacked by his own sense of smell. The aroma of the bayou overpowered everything else, a miasma of living and dead things, both plant and animal--stagnant pools of fresh water mixed with salty ocean, fish, algae, and every kind of green, growing plant above and below the tide line, all overlaid with the strong scent of salt, cypress sap, seaweed, and moss.

Scott looked over the bridge railing in time to see a furry creature that looked like a combination beaver and rat slide into the water beneath a large snapping turtle.

Farther out in the Gulf of Mexico, the cutter USCG Ravenswood bobbed on the choppy waters. The sleek, 65-foot rescue and pursuit vessel pulled against her anchor lines as the receding tide tugged on her slender, white hull.

_She's a stout craft, _Scott thought, _great for pursuits and most ocean-based rescues, but she's not built for an in-close situation like this. Not enough punch or weight to cut through the debris and trash. Not to mention take on a minefield of tree roots, submerged stumps, and jagged rocks. Looks like we'll have to rely on our own gear._

"Int'national Rescue, am I glad to see you."

A short, slender man in his late 40s, with a strong Cajun accent, wearing a Coast Guard uniform with Captain's insignia, stepped up and offered his hand. Scott accepted it and nodded a return greeting.

"Captain Isaiah Thibodaux, US Coast Guard outta N'awlins. We got ou'se'ves a thurty-fi' foot, Tiberian class cabin cruiser, the Nightlight, stran'ed on a cypress outcrop. Eee's jus' outta sight, there, to the wes'. She stable for naw, but as soon's the tide pull out, dose trees won't hol' her weight. She'll come loose. She got a wicked tear in her hull. Here's some photos we took'a the scene."

Captain Thibodaux laid a half-dozen high-res photographs on Mobile Control's central panel.

"The storm ended jus' a few minutes affer your man answered our hail," Captain Thibodaux said. "We try 'gain to get to 'em, but there's too much debris. The roots o' the trees'd puncture our hull or tear off our screws afore we c'ld get inside ten feet of dat boat. The Zodiacs'd have an even worse time of it."

"The tide?"

"Turnin'. I estimate twenny minutes afore Nightlight loses her perch an' hits the water. We t'ought to put men on board, but the Nightlight's crew reckon the extra weight might break the branches that're holdin' 'em steady. With this much done to her hull," Captain Thibodaux indicated one particular photo; it showed a jagged tear some six to seven feet long and two feet wide below the cruiser's waterline, "she'll sink like a rock. Every soul aboard her'll drown. "

"We're not going to let that happen," Scott vowed.

"There be one more t'ing you should know," the Coast Guard captain said. "Since we couldn't put men aboard, we done been talkin' to the people on the Nightlight. If they sayin' right, you have eighteen folk to rescue. One pilot, two deck hands, and fifteen passengers. Accordin' to the boat's cap'n, him an' the two hands are the only sober souls on board. The rest're as plastered as a buildin' wall."

"Oh, fantastic."

"It gets bettah."

Scott tipped his head back and sighed to heaven. "Joy. Okay, what else?"

"About the passengers? The youngest, I say the youngest, is 70."

"Seventy? The _youngest_?" Scott gaped. "And they're _drunk_?"

Captain Thibodaux nodded, a wry grin of sympathy on his craggy, wind-burned face. "The eldest's around 85. Spry ol' folk from what the crew say, no walkers 'r anythin'. Just drunk as squirrels in a brewery an' about as smart."

"This is insane," Scott muttered. "Any more good news to share?"

The captain didn't take the comment to heart. He grinned and said, "Nope. I figgered that's enough to make your day."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Right Side Up Again**

Scott shifted the photos out of the way and pressed a button on Mobile Control's center panel. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird 2. What's your ETA?"

_"You should be able to see us on the horizon now, Scott,"_ Gordon answered. _"We'll be dropping the pod with Thunderbird 4 in 1.5 minutes. I'm passing the stick to John right now and heading for Thunderbird 4."_

"F.A.B., Gordon. John, this is a tricky one. I can't see the wreck from where I am, but Captain Thibodaux has provided me with pictures. From the looks of things, we'll need Thunderbird 4 to cut a path through the cypress roots and nestle tight against the _Nightlight_. We'll use her to hold the cruiser as steady as possible. Meanwhile, you'll pick me up. I'll take over the controls while you and Alan man the rescue platform. Hopefully, we'll be able to get everyone off the ship before the tide pulls out too far."

John's voice took on an unmistakable tone of resentment. _"I don't go on as many rescues as you other guys, but I can handle this 'bird."_

"I know you can, John. But the sun is setting, the winds are gusting, and the tide is going out. I have more flying time with Thunderbird 2 than you do. Don't worry, you won't be bored. According to Captain Thibodaux, except for the ship's three-man crew, our vics are elderly and drunk on their asses. You're going to have your hands full loading them onto the platform."

John didn't sound like he liked the plan but he deferred to his field commander's decision, saying, _"F.A.B."_

Scott heard Alan cackling in the background. _Guess he finds drunken geriatrics funny._

_"Over the danger zone now,"_ John reported. _"Gordon's in the pod. Signal ready for deployment received. Descending to twenty-five feet. With the choppy waves, that's as low as I dare go. Dropping in five-four-three-two-one. Releasing pod. Pod away."_

Even over the distance separating them from the scene and with a dense stand of trees between them, Scott and Captain Thibodaux felt the pulse of Thunderbird 2's stabilizing retros in the small bones of their inner ear and heard the dull whuuuumph as the bulky pod hit the water.

Gordon's voice came over the radio. _"Pod deployment complete. Taking Thunderbird 4 out now."_

"F.A.B., Gordon. John-"

_"On my way."_

"There's no place for you to set down, so Alan will have to lower a line."

_"F.A.B."_ Alan acknowledged.

Scott turned to Captain Thibodaux. "Captain, I'm going to head out with my team. I'll need an armed guard on my ship and this control console," Scott tapped the side of Mobile Control, "at all times. If you need to communicate with us, press this button here. We'll hear you."

"I awready got you a detail." Captain Thibodaux pointed to three uniformed Coast Guard sailors, armed with rifles, who stood at the western end of the bridge. Another three guarded the east. "The rest o' my crew's aboard the _Ravenswood_. Dey'll stand off the coast, ready to help if you need 'em."

"Good man. Thank you."

Captain Thibodaux's eyes grew round and his jaw dropped. He took an involuntary step back, crossed himself, and muttered, "Mary, Joseph, Agou, an' Papa Legba! What in the worl' is that?"

Scott looked up as Thunderbird 2, minus her pod, slowed to a hover directly overhead. The heated press of her stabilizing retros blasted every trace of dust or dirt from the roadway, scoured the ground, and temporarily pressed back a portion of the bayou waters. A single line of rope descended from an open hatch in her belly.

Scott repeated his security request to Captain Thibodaux, verified that the man could overcome his surprise at seeing the giant rescue transport, and stepped into the rope's harness.

Once on board, Scott slapped Alan on the back in thanks--it was impossible to talk over the roar of the retros and the whistle of wind across the open hatch--and hurried to the lift. Once on the bridge, he took control of Thunderbird 2.

Alan and John stood behind him as Scott hovered the giant freight transport to one side of the stranded _Nightlight_.

"Remember, boys. This is bayou country. Swampland. There are alligators, snakes, and God knows what else in that water, and all of it kicked up and disturbed by both man and storm. Keep your guns handy at all times and be cafeful."

"Nag, nag," Alan muttered under his breath before officially answering, "Will do, Scott."

The two blond Tracy brothers disappeared in the lift, headed for the rescue platform.

"Thunderbird 4 from Thunderbird 2," Scott radioed. "What's your status?"

_"Approaching the area now, Scott,"_ Gordon replied. _"Visibility is pretty much zero down here. I'm using instruments. Even then it's not easy. There's so much floating around, it's hard to make my way through it."_

"How long?"

_"If I'm reading my scan correctly,"_ Gordon answered, _"I should only need to cut through three large roots and shift one small pile of driftwood to reach the _Nightlight_. The way the trunks and roots weave together, I should be able to tuck into them from the seaward side. I can then use Four's engines to counteract the pull of the tide. I won't be able to hold her in place once she's too heavy for the trees, but I can take the stress off her because of wave motion."_

"Sounds like a plan. I'm about to lower Alan and John on the rescue platform. If the ship's crew is on the ball, they should have everyone organized and ready for pickup."

Barely two minutes later, Gordon called again, _"I'm in position, Scott. I can see the_ Nightlight _now."_

"Gordon, can you see the tear in her hull? What about a temporary patch? Can you get something over the hole and spray it with a bonding agent? It'll buy us some time in case we can't get everyone off before the ship falls from her aerie."

_"Let me check."_ Gordon was back within twenty seconds. _"No can do, Scott. I don't have anything on board to deal with a hole that large, jagged, and curved."_

"It was a thought. Just means we'll have to work fast."

TB TB TB

_"This is Morgan Roberts, IWN News."_

A photo of the dark-haired reporter appeared alongside the IR logo on the vid screen behind Teresa Roberts. A second screen behind her activated to show a map of the Louisiana coastline.

_"Our boat is positioned some quarter-mile from the rescue area. I would love to show you a picture of what I'm seeing, but International Rescue's anti-camera security measures are in place here along the coast of Louisiana. Thunderbird 2 has arrived on the scene and has apparently dropped off her central cargo pod. The fantastic, green giant is hovering some thirty feet above the stranded_ Nightlight_. I can see another ship, a small, brightly painted orange submarine, approaching from the Gulf side. It appears as if they intend a two-pronged rescue. The sub will hold the_ Nightlight _steady while men on a rescue platform lift the endangered passengers to safety."_

Megan held onto the arm of Jeff's chair tight enough to whiten her knuckles. Jeff smiled reassuringly and petted the back of her hand in reassurance.

"Sounds like everything's going just fine," he said. "They have everything covered. Nothing to worry about."

TB TB TB

Alan tried once more to coax a small, pudgy old man with a thick head of gunmetal grey hair into the platform.

"Come on, fella. We need to get you off this boat." He turned to John and groused, "Do you believe this? It's like trying to herd _cats_!"

John laughed, only to grunt as someone groped him from behind. A small woman with silver-blue curls grinned up at him in what was meant to be a coquettish manner. She might have pulled it off except for the bottle of bourbon in her hand, her drunken weaving, a wide-brimmed cap tilted too far toward her right ear, and an age that exceeded his grandmother's.

With a grimace disguised as a polite smile, John nudged her toward the back of the platform with a slightly stronger than necessary push.

The youngest brother snickered even as he sympathized with John's predicament. Alan was usually the one being pinched, poked, or petted, usually on the cheek like some cute little child. To see a little old lady paw over the middle Tracy son would make a great story once they returned to the island.

So far, they had convinced only nine of the eighteen victims to step onto the platform. The others gaped drunkenly at Thunderbird 2, danced around the tilted deck, or passed another bottle around, every one of them too drunk to pay them any attention. Two old men hung over the far rail, snickering and pointing to where Thunderbird 4 pressed against their seaward hull.

John, Alan, and the ship's crew did their best, but none of the inebriated geriatrics still aboard the Nightlight would listen to anyone but their liquored-up companions.

Alan reached once again for the pudgy little man. "Come on, grandpa. Time to go."

"Not ... yuuuuur grannnnpah!"

The empty liquor bottle caught Alan under his chin. His teeth clacked together, his brain tolled like a clapper inside a bell, and his vision faded out. One moment he was on the platform, the next he was airborne, headed straight for the churning waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

"Alan!" John yelled. "Scott, man in the water. Alan's in the water. Tide's taking him out to sea."

_"Gordon-"_

_"On it, Scott. I have him on sidescan. He's already too far away for a shot-line. Thunderbird 4 to Alan."_

_"I'm okay, guys,"_ Alan answered immediately, his voice slurry as he rubbed his sore jaw.

Scott studied his brother's telecom picture on Thunderbird 2's control panel. Blond hair dripping salt water down his forehead, blue uniform saturated with Gulf water, Alan grimaced as he nursed his jaw. Salt water and sand would have found a way into every crack and orifice, but other than red eyes and a swollen jaw, Scott could see no other sign or symptom of injury.

_"I tried to swim back but the tide's too strong," _Alan reported. _"I've deployed my emergency raft, so leave me for the time being. Concentrate on the rescue. And when you see the drunk old coot who hit me ... hit him back."_

Scott released his breath in relief. "Will do, little brother. Will do. Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 5. Virgil, Alan's in the water. Keep track of his GPS transponder. We'll pick him up when the mission is over."

_"Got him, Scott."_

"Alan, keep your personal transponder turned on, as well as the one in your emergency raft. Thunderbird 4 will be out to pick you up as soon as the rescue is complete."

_"Like I said before, I'm fine. I'll just put my feet up and relax. I'll watch the sun go down and imagine cloud shapes. After that storm, it sure is a pretty sky-blue-pink. Oh, look. There's Thunderbird 3. And that one looks like Tin-Tin's hair."_

_"Notice which order he put them in,"_ John pointed out. _"Tin-Tin's not going to be happy..."_

"Okay, boys, enough horsing around. We're running out of sun, and this isn't the kind of rescue I want to attempt using only Thunderbird 2's searchlights. Let's finish this rescue, get Alan, and go home."

Gordon asked, _"Are you truly in that big of a hurry?"_

"Not really," Scott admitted, "but Grandma won't go away by putting her off. John, I'm putting Thunderbird 2 on automatic pilot. Bring up those you have loaded. I'll join you on the rescue platform. Gordon, keep Thunderbird 4 steady. Hold that ship in place as long as you can. And for God's sake, John, don't end up in the Gulf, too."

_"F.A.B., Scott. Raising platform now."_

The intercom opened again, this time with Coast Guard Captain's voice on the line. "_Er, In'national Rescue, this is Cap'n Thibodaux. Our spotters say you got a man in de water. From the looks o' t'ings, none o' you can break off to go git him. The_ Ravenswood _stands ready to fish 'im out."_

"Thank you for the offer, Captain, but our man is fine. We're in communication with him. He's not hurt. We'll be able to find him easily enough when the rescue is complete."

_"Okay then,"_ the Captain said, sounding skeptical. _"_Ravenswood's _standin' by in case you change your mind."_

TB TB TB

_"Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish you could see what I'm seeing,"_ Morgan Roberts reported over a map of the Louisiana coastline, the rescue location marked by a large red 'X.' The reporter's photo and name overlay the bottom right quadrant of the transmission. _"I don't quite know why, but the victims have responded violently to the presence of International Rescue. One of the rescuers has been attacked with some kind of object, perhaps a club, an axe, or a knife. The man from International Rescue has fallen from the platform. He's in the water!"_

Troy and Kylee Albright sat on the floor in front of the vid screen, their attention riveted on the unraveling news story.

In a chair behind them, Jeff Tracy listened with his heart in his throat. Should he call Virgil up in Thunderbird 5, maybe interrupting at a critical time, or should he wait and get the story later, when the crisis was past?

_"Oh, this is terrible. He's in the water. I'm searching but I can't see him anywhere. The waters are unbelievably rough still from the storm, winds are gusting over 50 miles per hour, and the tide is on the way out. He must have been pulled out to sea and his companions cannot leave the rescue to go find him. They must continue to try and save the very people who have placed their colleague's life in terrible jeopardy. Folks, I admit, I'm not sure I would have that kind of purity of heart--to leave a trusted friend to an uncertain fate in order to save the lives of the very people who tried to kill him."_

_Kill him? Is it really that serious? Which one is it--Scott, John or Alan? The only one I can exclude is Gordon. He's in Thunderbird 4. No, given the conditions, Scott would fly Thunderbird 2. It must be either John or Alan._

_Which of my sons is in the water? Does he have his emergency gear with him? Surely, he would. But if he's hurt or unconscious, he can't use it._

_"We already know the close bond that connects these brave men. We all remember the horror of two years ago, when the infamous Erasmus Black held one of the International Rescue men hostage and used the world's news satellites to carry his ransom message. Come to think of it, the man who fell had blond hair. It might well be the same man."_

_Definitely Alan or John, then. Is this some kind of trap? Maybe these aren't old people at all but disguised agents of the Hood. It's just the kind of mischief he'd enjoy. Blake might pull something like this, but he's locked away for life._

A small hand touched his shoulder. Jeff twitched and turned. Megan stood there, her elfish face pinched in concern and fear.

Jeff did his best to smile away her worry and hide his own. Given that tiny invitation, Megan stepped closer and laid her arm across his trembling back. Her head rested on his shoulder, while her free hand rubbed soothing circles over his collarbone. Jeff wrapped an arm around her and tucked her tight to his side.

Together, they turned their attention back to the reporter's dialogue and waited for news.

TB TB TB

Scott eyed the rapidly receding waters beneath the _Nightlight's_ hull. Branches bent and snapped as more of the distressed vessel's weight settled onto the trees.

As the rescue platform settled into place, Scott commanded both John and the _Nightlight's_ crew, "Get them on this platform, right now. Courtesy is secondary to getting everyone off this boat. We have three minutes, tops, before these trees give way."

The elderly drunks protested and struggled, but they couldn't overcome the determination of their rescuers. The _Nightlight's_ crew in particular was driven by fear. The two men and one woman had been forced to wait and watch, knowing all the time what dangers loomed.

As the last victim stepped onto the platform, John slammed the gate closed and Scott hit the winch control.

"Rescue platform to Thunderbirds 4 and 5. Everyone's clear. Gordon, get outta there, now."

_"Reverse thrusters activated. Virgil, give me a fix on Alan's GPS transmission."_

By the time John settled the second batch of drunken geriatrics and their relieved guides in the forward sickbay, Scott sat once more at the controls of Thunderbird 2 and Gordon had reached Alan.

The youngest Tracy son lounged on his personal inflatable raft, fingers laced behind his salt-spiked head and ankles crossed, staring up at the darkening sky. The sun was a single, narrow crescent of red balanced on the edge of the western horizon.

_"Hey, bro,"_ Gordon called over the telecom, _"need a lift?"_

"Naw," Alan gave a lazy wave, as much a shooing motion as it was a greeting. "I'm good."

_"Okay then. See ya back at base. At the rate the current's moving, you should get reach Cuba in, oh, a month or two."_

Alan threw his brother a rude gesture over the telecom. "Yah, yah, yuck it up all you want. I'm cold and wet and tired and, Grandma or not, I just want to go home."

_"Then home it is, brother,"_ Gordon closed Thunderbird 4's access hatch behind Alan and set the online nav system to home in on the pod's locator signal. _"Home it is."_

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Big Brother Alan**

It was barely midmorning on Tracy Island and Alan was sweaty from helping Gordon install child-protective fencing around the family pool. Grandma had bought the two-missions-in-one-day-we're-exhausted excuse the night before. She'd filled them to the brim with dinner and hurried them off to bed, only to wake all four boys at the crack of doom with a hammer in one hand and an apron in the other.

While the boys had rescued drunken old folks off the Louisiana coast, Grandma, Tin-Tin, and Brains had ordered all the supplies necessary to start the renovations. The fence panels had arrived an hour after the boys fell into their beds. The clothes, schoolbooks, bedding, paint, and all the paraphernalia necessary for a happy childhood would come via courier plane later that afternoon.

Determined to clean up, soak his sore body, and rest a little before the next round of retrofit, Alan cut through his father's study on the way to his bedroom. Between the previous day's strenuous rescues, the drunk's assault, and a painful dunk in the Gulf of Mexico, he was not in the best of shape to help with any of Grandma's determined renovations.

He hurt in almost every muscle. His lower back and left shoulder in particular ached from the fall and subsequent impact with a submerged cypress root. But who was he to stand in the way of Grandma's plans? If Alan mentioned his condition, she'd react in one of two ways, neither of them good. She would either accuse him of faking to get out of work and give him the hardest jobs to do, or she'd tuck him into a sickroom bed and not let him move for days.

His brothers' response to either option would not be pretty for Alan.

A chirping signal came from the vidcom. Alan diverted to the communications device near the desk and accepted the video call.

"Tracy Island."

His father's smiling face appeared on the circular screen. _"Hello, son. How are you?"_

"I'm fine, never better."

Alan waited patiently while Jeff looked him over. _"I heard the newscast on the rescue. They made it sound horrendous, but when I checked in with Virgil last night, he said you had a sore jaw, nothing more."_

Alan fingered the bruised area under his right jaw line and smiled away his parent's concern. "The drunken old coot gave me a love tap with an empty bottle, that's all. Except for that and having sand where sand doesn't belong, I'm fine." Alan smiled and added, "Next time you talk to John, ask him how many bruises he has on his bottom from being groped or pinched by drunken old ladies."

_"I'll be sure and do that."_ Jeff answered his son's smile with one of his own. _"Sounds like an interesting story."_

"Did you need something in particular or were you just calling to check in?"

_"Reassuring myself that you're okay was my first priority, but there is something I need. You'll find a disk in my top right desk drawer marked 'TE Mach 5 fuselage and wing redesign number two.' I need that as soon as you can bring it to me in New York."_

"Not that I wouldn't love any excuse to escape the island," Alan said, "can't I just send it to you over the Internet?"

Jeff shook his head. _"It's encrypted. The only copy of the program that can read it is on my laptop."_

"Which is there with you in New York. Got it. If you need it, no problem. I can take Tracy Two and be in NYC in a few hours."

_"You don't have to sound so reluctant,"_ Jeff scoffed, meaning the exact opposite. _"What's going on?"_

Alan shrugged. "Let's just say Grandma has some projects that I'm glad to get out of." He rooted through the desk drawer until he found the disk in question. He waved the coin-sized jewel case in front of the vid pickup. "Found it. Let me pack an overnight bag and I'll head right out."

_"Be sure to tell Scott you're leaving. If a call comes in, he needs to know."_

"Will do, Dad. Is there anything else you need me to bring?"

_"No, that's it. I'll see you later."_

TB TB TB TB

An overnight kit, encrypted disk, and other documents in his possession, Alan Tracy arrived at Tracy Towers at twelve minutes to five in the afternoon, local time. Being the boss's son held some advantages--Security passed him through with minimal delay. A guard called ahead and confirmed that Jeff was in his office.

Alan smiled a greeting to his father's longtime personal assistant, Sarah Gillespie. He pointed to the inner sanctum and asked, "Is he alone?"

"No, but go in anyway." Sarah winked and hit the door lock release. "He's expecting you."

Alan slipped through the doorway, already talking. "Hello, Father. I have the disk that you ... want ... -ed."

Alan looked from his father to the three children and back again.

_Kids ... in Father's office?_

In all the excitement, he'd forgotten the children. Which was silly, considering what Grandma was doing to the island. Still, seeing the three playing around the room while his father worked at his desk was ... odd.

"Son, are you okay?"

"Ummm. Yeah." Reminded of his errand, Alan dropped his kit next to the door and handed a small brown leather satchel to his father. "Here's the disk. Scott asked me to deliver the latest inventory and supply lists to you, as well. According to Brains, we're low on several key replacement components and chemicals, most especially for the oxyhydnite gas."

A squeal of childish protest--"Those are _MY_ colors, leave alone!"--from the other side of the room momentarily derailed Alan's report.

"Umm. ... Virgil wanted me to tell you there may be a problem with, uh, the last shipment from Palermo. The post-flight diagnostic found microscopic stress fractures in the ailerons. He thinks they're due to substandard manufacture."

"I'll look the lists over and get back with Brains about the supplies. I'll also follow up with Virgil about Palermo. We definitely can do without poor quality components." Jeff set down his stylus and stood up. "In the meantime, let me introduce you to the Munchkins."

Jeff led his youngest to the area usually reserved for informal business meetings. The top of the oval teak conference table was invisible under a blizzard of discarded paper, all covered with children's crayon drawings and watercolor paintings. Story and picture books covered the coffee table and woven rug in front of the couch.

The instant Jeff settled into a high-back leather chair next to the couch, a little girl with an amazing head of auburn ringlets and large, new-grass green eyes scooted off her conference table seat and hopped into his lap.

A taller, leaner boy with chestnut hair and green eyes sat on the floor next to the coffee table and flipped through a picture book filled with ocean creatures. He rested a bright green cast and white cotton sling on the tabletop, letting the wood support its uncomfortable weight.

An older girl with pixie-short brunette hair and identical new-grass green eyes hovered nearby, watching over her siblings. A dark bruise marred her right cheek and a white bandage covered her left hand from the bend of her wrist to her knuckles.

Bemused, Alan settled onto the section of couch closest to his father.

"You're Alan," the little girl said.

"That's right. I am. And who are you?"

"Kylee! Kylee Awbrite!"

"Well, Kylee Albright, it's nice to meet you. Are they taking good care of you here?"

"Uh-hup!" Kylee leaned back far enough to kiss the underside of Jeff's stubbly jaw. "Missert'acy is nice!"

"Is he, then. Well, that's good to know." Alan couldn't resist grinning at his father's fiery blush.

"Kylee, that's gross," the boy muttered.

"Is not. I kiss him hello."

"You only kiss hello when you first see each other, not all day."

"I can say hello if I wannoo!" Kylee stuck her tongue out at her brother and proved her point by kissing Jeff again, this time a loud, juicy smack on the cheek.

_Scott was right,_ Alan thought. _They are adorable and sweet, and one look at them definitely melts your heart._

Sarah Gillespie called over the office intercom, _"Mr. Tracy, Fred Tabor is calling, line three. He says it's urgent."_

"Put him through, Sarah."

Jeff enjoyed Alan's wide-eyed, startled, stiff-bodied response when Jeff transferred Kylee into his lap. By the time the call connected, the Tracy patriarch was at his desk.

In case the lawyer had something disturbing to say about their parents or the accident, Jeff didn't want the children to overhear. He lowered the receiving volume and greeted his caller, saying, "Hello, Fred. What can I do for you? Something urgent, you say?"

_"I received a call from Judge Benson's office,"_ the lawyer said. _"They've set the initial court date for the hearing. In addition to that, some video of the accident has surfaced. It documents everything and confirms witness statements. We should meet to discuss the situation."_

"Video? I don't recall anyone with a camera but then I wasn't looking for one. Okay. Sounds fine." With a few taps on his Blackberry Prime, Jeff pulled up his personal appointment scheduler. "When would you like?"

_"I know it's late, but right now would be best."_

"Now?"

The children had settled into playing with Alan, who had loosened up considerably. Kylee still sat on his lap. Troy was showing off his cast and his ocean book, cycling between the two topics, giving Alan time only to nod between points. Megan did her best to redirect Kylee's sudden interest in Alan's blond hair and the buttons of his tan and rust jacket.

"You have an owie," Kylee said to Alan. "Lemme kiss it all better." The child pressed a feather-light kiss on his cheek, missing the bruise by several inches, and beamed in pride. "See? All better."

Jeff smiled at Alan's hot blush--_payback is nice,_ he observed--then turned back to the vid screen. "I need to find someone to watch the children."

Alan held up his hand and said, "I'll stay with them."

Giving his son a classic double take, Jeff studied Alan closely and asked, "Are you certain, son? It's not ... I mean, you've never babysat before."

"What I don't know, I'm sure Megan can teach me." Alan tweaked the girl's nose, making her giggle. "They're so well behaved. How much trouble could it be?"

"Famous last words. I'll remember you said them." With a raised eyebrow and a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes, Jeff Tracy gave his son a 'you're-about-to-find-out' look. "If you're sure."

"We'll be fine. Go."

"Alright then. Fred, I'm on my way."

_"I'll see you soon, Jeff."_

Jeff leaned over, rubbed Kylee's soft curls back and kissed her forehead. He ruffled Troy's hair and tapped Megan's button nose.

"I have to go to a meeting now, but I'll be back as fast as I can. Listen to what Alan and Megan tell you, all right, Kylee? Troy? I'll be back soon, I promise."

In a flash, Kylee went from angelic to horrid. She turned stiff as a board on Alan's lap. She arched her spine and dug her heels into his shins. She threw her head back and bopped his already sore jaw.

"Don' go, don' go!" Kylee wailed, her arms outstretched toward Jeff. Huge tears pooled on her long eyelashes.

Having raised five children, Jeff knew the rules. Hanging back to comfort them only worsened the separation anxiety. Better to say goodbye, promise to return, and escape quickly. Leave the responsible caregiver to redirect the child's attention before anxiety became tantrum.

Slack-jawed and gaping, Alan couldn't believe how quickly his father bolted from the room. Couldn't he have taken just a few minutes to calm her down before he left?

He tried to walk and bounce her out of her fit of temper. Kylee twisted in his arms, not wanting to be held but unwilling to be put down.

_Heavens, were any of us boys ever this clingy? I remember throwing my share of tantrums. Gordon, too. Scott ... no, that picture just isn't coming to mind. I can't see Scott pitching a fit like this._

Alan did his best to divert Kylee with books and crayons, but she accepted none of it. She pushed or slapped away anything he tried to present to her. Auburn ringlets stuck to her sweat's forehead and cheeks but she rejected his every attempt to run a moist towel over her face. Kylee wanted Jeff and Jeff was gone, so cry she would--hard, long, and loud. Very loud.

_Ow--right in my ear. Her shriek could shatter glass!_

Within minutes, Kylee's unending hysterics affected Troy. With his sore arm, he was already prone to lowered moods. Having his sister sobbing away triggered his own tears. Before he knew it, two kids clung to Alan's lap, crying into his jacket lapels.

_I've comforted kids on rescues a hundred times. Hardly ever had any problems. Why can't I calm these two? What am I doing wrong?_

Megan tried to take first Kylee then Troy but neither child would accept her. They wanted their mother or Jeff, and if neither one was available, Alan would do in his place.

The door opened. Sarah Gillespie stepped into the room and with one announcement instantly silenced the cacophony of noise.

"Who wants McDonalds?"

The noise cut off like someone had flipped a switch. One moment, Alan's lap was filled with sobbing children, the next three bodies catapulted across the room to the table. Sarah pushed aside the artwork to set down several bags and a tray of drinks.

"Bless you, Sarah. Bless you a thousand lifetimes. I'll make certain there's a huge bonus in your next paycheck."

Sarah smiled and left the office.

After ten minutes where he sorted food, ripped open ketchup packets, heard how Troy didn't want his fries touching his bread, watched Megan switch her chicken nuggets for her sister's burger, and cleaned up Kylee's spilled orange juice, Alan was sure Sarah had played a mean trick on him.

By the time they'd all finished eating, the conference table, their chairs, and much of the floor was a ketchup-splattered, sticky, gooey mess, and Alan was exhausted.

The children, on the other hand, quickly found their second wind. An endless round of tag followed until Troy's sore arm forced him to rest. Alan, exhausted, gratefully brought that particular game to a halt.

They played I-Spy out the windows until it grew too dark to see anything but car and building lights then turned their attentions to inside games.

After a quick trip to the apartment bathroom to do their business, wash their hands, and brush their teeth, Alan brought them back to the office--since that was where all the books were--and read to Kylee for the rest of the evening. Or rather, Kylee made up stories about various pictures and refused to let Alan turn a page until she'd finished each tale. She sometimes linked stories from one page to another, flipping back and forth until Alan was totally and in all ways lost.

Megan sat with Troy on the floor, flipping through their own books, often giggling at Kylee's very strange and tangled stories.

The wall clock chimed 8 p.m. In the blink of an eye, the chatty child in Alan's lap leaned back and closed her eyes, sighed once, and relaxed.

"Momma," she murmured sleepily and waved to thin air.

"She's sleepy." Megan stood up and began straightening the room. "None of us slept good last night and neither of them would take a nap today."

"Well then--leave the mess, I'll clean it later--let's get her upstairs to bed, shall we?"

Alan rotated Kylee and settled her onto his shoulder, ignoring muscle twinges from the previous day's activities. Megan herded Troy along to the elevators and led them all into the Tracy apartment. She guided Alan to a bed shared by the two girls and pulled the covers down. Somewhere between the office and the apartment, Kylee went rag doll limp, falling sound asleep in his arms.

Megan removed Kylee's shoes and socks then unzipped her dress. Alan sat the sleeping down on the edge of the bed, helped Megan peel off the outer layers and slip a nightgown over her head. Megan made the switch so smooth, he didn't have time to even think that he was redressing a little girl he'd only met a few hours earlier.

His charge now properly dressed for bed, he tilted Kylee back onto the pillow, careful not to pull her long hair.

Tucking a little girl into bed was a unique experience for the youngest of five boys. Alan marveled at how innocent she looked, and how warm he felt inside.

_It's sad, really, that we can't keep them. It would be nice to have younger siblings, someone to take care of the way my brothers cared for me. When they did things like help me with my meals and tuck me into bed at night, I never realized the feelings weren't all one way. They got something out of it, too._

Alan turned around, only to find the Albright boy sound sleep on the room's second bed. Smiling, Alan slipped the sling off Troy's neck so that he wouldn't accidentally choke himself then positioned a spare pillow under the cast to hold it steady. He removed the boy's shoes, socks, and pants and covered him with a blanket from the linen closet.

After a final look between the two sleeping youngsters, he turned off the light and slipped out of the room, leaving the door partially opened so that he could hear if they awoke.

He found Megan curled up in Jeff's navy blue velvet recliner in the den, a book opened on her folded knees.

"Are they asleep?" she asked.

"Yes. Both of them. Out like a light."

Megan nodded, equally tired and content to let her siblings sleep. Alan tilted his head, trying to see the title of the book.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"A book Mr. Tracy gave me this morning. It's a book of fairy tales."

"I remember that one," Alan said as he saw the silver-clad princess and her fire-breathing dragon on the cover. "My brother Virgil read it to me all the time when I was little."

"They're nice stories. I've never heard them before."

"Never?"

"Mm-mmm." Megan shook her head and looked down. Her cheeks flushed while a finger traced the dragon's uplifted wing. "Daddy said ... fairy tales were silly. They filled our heads with nonsense thoughts. One time Momma brought home a Peter Pan book for Troy. Daddy burned it."

What could he say to that? Yes, his own father was a strict disciplinarian. He had rules and you obeyed them. If you didn't, you did so with full knowledge of the consequences. Jefferson Tracy believed in honesty, hard work, and family.

But this child ... these children ... didn't have guidance. They had violence and fear and turmoil.

_The fact that they can laugh or feel any kind of joy at all is a miracle in itself. I can see why Father is so drawn to them. I am, too. If only there was some way we could keep them._

"Were you the one?"

Pulled back from his morbid thoughts, Alan blinked and asked, "'The one' what?"

"The one that fell in the water yesterday. On the news, they said it was a blond man." Megan pointed to the darkened bruise under his jaw line. "I had a bruise like that after Daddy hit me for spilling milk in the car."

_How should I answer? How did she know about International Rescue? Surely Father hadn't told her!_

Megan seemed to read his thoughts. "Your father was trying to talk Troy into getting a cast. He showed us a picture of Scott, Virgil and you. Virgil's arm was in a sling just like Troy would get if he wore a cast. Then Scott came to the hospital in his Thunderbirds uniform. I recognized him. I don't think Troy did, though."

"Ahhh." Alan squirmed. If there was one thing that ticked off Scott or Virgil ... "Uhh, Megan. If you should ever ... well, we're International Rescue, not the Thunderbirds. The Thunderbirds are our machines. Not us."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"No, that's okay. You're not the only one that says it. It's just ... well, Scott ... it gets old, you know?"

"Yeah. I can understand. Thank you for telling me."

Hoping to lighten the mood, Alan rubbed his hands together and rolled back on his heels.

"Hey, would you like a fire in the fireplace?" he asked. "It's really fun to cuddle up in front of a roaring fire and watch the wood burn. Well, I mean, the building's fire codes don't allow a real fireplace this high up. Too risky. It's not real wood. It's not even a real fireplace. It's a holographic picture, but it puts out heat like a real fireplace and it looks, sounds and smells just like the real thing. It's great."

Giggling at his antics, Megan said, "Sounds nice."

Alan found the remote control and activated the virtual hearth designed by Brains for when fireplaces were wanted but fire hazard prevented their use. Warmed by the faux fireplace, he removed his outer jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

Sometime during Kylee's earlier explorations, the top three buttons of his shirt had come undone. As Alan removed his jacket, a fourth came loose. A large portion of Alan's chest showed, including a silvery spider web of scars. Some were long, narrow, and pale, barely visible against his tropical tan. Other scars were ragged and puckered, a salmon to rosy pink color.

Megan stared at the tangled marks and said the first thing that popped into her head. "Did your Daddy do that to you?"

It took Alan a long moment to figure out what she meant. When the light dawned, his perpetually hot temper flared. In full blaze, he reared up and shouted, "What? _No!_ My father would _never_-!"

Alan blinked. The girl was gone. One moment she was in the recliner, the next she cowered behind it, eyes closed, panting for breath. As he stepped around the blue chair, she made a soft whimper, wrung her hands, and huddled tighter within herself, shrinking away from him.

Faster than his family would have ever thought possible, Alan wrestled down his temper and calmed himself.

"Megan? Honey, it's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell or get angry. I'm not mad at you, I promise you that. It's just ... what you thought, it surprised me, that's all. That anyone could possibly think that my Dad would ever-"

Alan gestured to the marks on his skin. Standing up very slowly so as not to frighten her further, he held out his hands and waited, hoping she would accept his help.

"Come on. Let's sit back down and I'll tell you what happened."

Still shivering, Megan allowed Alan to pull her off the floor. She did not object when he settled her back into the recliner and covered her with an afghan. Alan knelt on the floor in front of her, hoping the lower, more submissive position might reassure the child.

"Did your parents let you listen to the news?" he asked.

"Some-sometimes."

"Do you remember about two years ago, a bad man kidnapped someone from International Rescue and said he would return him if International Rescue gave up the secrets to their machines?"

Megan thought a long time before she finally offered him a tentative nod.

"I was the one he kidnapped. He ... well, he wasn't a nice man." Alan shuddered, his body remembering the abuse. "Not nice at all. He did this to me and left these scars. They hurt for a long time, but I'm all better now."

"How ... how did you get away? Did Mr. Tracy save you like he saved me and Troy and Kylee?"

"My brothers found me," Alan said. "They took me to a hospital and guarded me until I was well again. They even set a trap that caught the man who hurt me."

Megan offered him a wan smile. "It sounds like you have good brothers."

"We may argue a lot, but Scott, Virgil, John, and Gordon have always protected me from danger. When I end up in danger anyway, they always come to save me."

Alan took Megan's delicate hands and sandwiched them between his own, careful not to squeeze the bandaged one. Slight tremors still shook her body.

"You remind me a lot of Scott, you know," he confessed. "You protect the little ones the same way he does the rest of us."

"That's good. Right?"

"Yes, Megan. That's very good."

Something stirred within Alan that he'd never felt before. He had no words to describe it other than to know he'd do anything for this child and her siblings.

"Megan. I don't know what's going to happen in the future, what the lawyers and judges will decide about where you and your brother and sister will live," he said. "You are a part of our lives now--my father, me, my brothers, all of us. Wherever you are, whoever takes care of you, we will always come to protect you. That is my solemn promise. Whatever happens, you will never be hurt again, not as long as any Tracy man can possibly prevent it."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** ummm, *waves shakily* 'lo there... Long time no post, I know. Real Life is a female poodle in heat sometimes...sorry, gross imagery but nevertheless quite descriptive of my life of late. I am determined to get back into the habit of posting regularly once more, so here is the next chapter of Sheltering Arms. Enjoy.

**Chapter 8**

**Legalese**

Coat folded over his forearm, Jeff Tracy strode through the door into Fred Tabor's office and accepted the lawyer's friendly handshake. He found himself in a spacious office decorated in an overwhelming abundance of southwestern colors and Texas themes.

"Jeff, thanks for coming at such short notice," Tabor greeted him and took his coat to hang on a whitetail deer antler coat rack.

"It sounded important."

"It is, my friend, it is." Tabor motioned him over to one of four high-back faux cowhide chairs set around a small office conference table. "So, how do you like my New York office?" His smile turned mischievous. "I bought it with your money, y'know."

"It's very different from the one in Austin," Jeff admitted. "Less of the Lone Star theme." Jeff snorted at his own major understatement. "_Much _less."

"Weeeeeell now, I didn't need to bring a touch o' home into the office down there, did I?" Tabor smiled, deliberately exaggerating his drawl. "All I had to do was step outside."

"As for the money, you were worth every penny I paid you," Jeff responded in all seriousness. "You earned it, helping put Erasmus Blake behind bars for what he did to my son. And you'll earn it again with your help now."

Tabor fanned away the compliment and directed Jeff to one of the cowhide conference table chairs. "Speakin' of which, have a seat and I'll explain everything. I yanked you out of your office just before dinnertime. My secretary can order us something. There's a real nice steakhouse just down the street. They deliver late."

"No, thank you, Fred. I had a late lunch with the children. I can wait until we're finished to grab something. "

Tabor pointed to a chrome-plated refrigerator in the well-stocked wet bar. "Can I at least get you something to drink?"

"Water would be nice, thanks." While Fred collected their drinks, Jeff studied the over-the-top Texas jumble, including the tile mosaic of the Texas Star set into the tabletop. He said somewhat dryly, "With all this around, you can't be missing home too terribly."

"It's a taste o' Texas, sure 'nuf." Fred shrugged and grinned. "You should see my condo."

Jeff studied the room with shrewd eyes. Buried deep amidst the Texas Lone Stars, Hill Country paintings, cowboy statues, border landscapes, coastal scenes, rattlesnake hides, and bluebonnet plates were prestigious diplomas, awards, plaques, and certificates. It was as if he wanted to exaggerate his hokey cowboy persona and downplay his professional accolades.

_All the better to sucker his opponents_, Jeff reasoned. _If they don't see him as an alpha dog, they won't see him going for their throats until it's too late. It's something I've done myself, many times._

"Would my eyes survive the experience?" Jeff asked.

"Probably not," Tabor admitted with a huff of humor. "Here's your water. Okay, to business. First off, I need your permission to bring in some 'outside muscle' on this case. I'm better with criminal cases than I am with child custody battles, so I'd like to call in an expert."

The idea sounded reasonable enough. "Get anyone you need."

The lawyer warned, "She may be expensive."

"Money is not an issue here," Jeff said. "You know me well enough to know that, Fred."

"I know. I'm obliged to say something since it's your money I'm throwin' around."

"Out of curiosity, who is it you're wanting?"

Tabor glanced sideways as Jeff to catch his reaction and said, "Monica Ohm."

The billionaire's start of surprise was everything Tabor expected.

"As in the Monica from Monica's Law?"

"The very same." Fred nodded. "I figured, since I don't know this law as well as I need, I should call in the one person who knows it better than just about anybody. She's flyin' from Miami into New York tonight. I'll meet with her first thing in the mornin'. We'll discuss the case-you're welcome to join us if you like-and she'll go with us to the courtroom."

"Well, she'll be an advantage for our side, most definitely. Good idea, Fred."

Tabor settled into his seat with a bottle of diet soda and passed over the first of several manila folders. Overhead, the internal heating cut on, blowing a placid, warm breeze into the room.

"Here are the initial police and NTSB reports on the accident. A car plowed into the back of a disabled vehicle in the far left lane and started the chain reaction. A total of 528 vehicles were involved. As of an hour ago, 102 people are dead and 331 required medical attention. Of those, 177 were hospitalized. Five are critical and could still die. As for the illegal drone, the NTSB investigators blamed it with seven deaths, including Amanda Albright. The Feds plan to charge the company manager and the dispatcher who set its route, maybe others if they find further evidence of improper course programming."

Jeff laid that folder aside. Tabor took a long pull from his soda bottle, set it down on a coaster, and picked up another, thicker folder.

"This is a combined report. My research into Dillon Albright, Dr. Netherton's medical exams on the kids, and a report from an unnamed source-yours, I'm thinkin'-on the overall family history. It ain't much, I'm afraid."

Jeff leafed through the documents. Not much, indeed.

"I'll read the file in-depth later," Tracy said. "For now, give me the Cliff Notes version, would you?"

"Long story short, there's not a whole hell of a lotta evidence against Dillon Albright. What little we have is circumstantial, at best. About the one good thing I can say is, he may lose his job because of what your people found. Your agent dug up two reports filed by Megan's and Troy's teachers reporting possible abuse. Mr. Albright used his job in Child Protective Services to-"

"He works for CPS?" Jeff reared back in shock. The folder slid from his shock-loosened fingers, dumping its contents down the length of the conference table. "And he abuses his own children?"

"That's how he's been able to get away with it for so long." Tabor gathered the documents back into their original order and laid the folder on the table in front of his client. "He knows how to hide the evidence within the system. Your agent was able to document an electronic trail. Albright manipulated the records and files to cover up any evidence of his own violent behavior. If there was ever anything there, he did a fantastic job getting' rid of it, only missed those two reports. It's not a lot, but it's a start."

_Penny must have pulled John into the hunt_, Jeff reckoned. _He or Brains could have easily dug this information out of the system._

"Your people also found one police report, a domestic dispute five years ago. Troy was about 2 months old at the time. Respondin' officers noted both Amanda and Megan were scared, but they couldn't tell what they were afraid of-Dillon or havin' armed police officers in their house. Amanda had a cut on her left hand. She said a blade slipped while she was gettin' dinner ready. Officer on the scene thought the injury looked more like a defensive wound than an accidental slip of a kitchen knife, but when he pressed Amanda, she stuck to her story. He had to let it go."

Jeff lowered his head and let everything he knew about the situation filter through his thoughts. It was getting very complicated and offered no guarantee of a happy ending.

"Dr. Netherton's reports?" he asked.

"Our weakest evidence, when it should be our strongest," Tabor said. "Other than the bruise on Megan's face, X-ray evidence of an old spiral fracture on Troy's left arm, and hearsay, there ain't much to go on. Albright knows how the system works, an' he works it well."

"How could he possibly hide something like this?" Angered, Jeff slapped his hand down on the manila folder. "It doesn't seem possible. Someone should know what's going on."

"That's the problem. A lot of people know. Each one has a tiny part of the story, but no one's tried to put the pieces together until now. As for how he did it, he'd keep the blows shallow enough to not leave a mark or hit where clothes will cover the bruises. When he went too far and they needed medical attention, he'd hop doctors and hospitals, a different one each time. They'd sometimes use public clinics, give false names, and always pay in cash so there's no financial trail to follow."

Tabor leaned against the table and made a double fist. "I'll be honest with you, Jeff. Our evidence right now is highly circumstantial. It can be explained a dozen different ways. If it weren't for the video, we'd be on very shaky ground. Going to court with only witness statements and this limited physical evidence ..."

Tabor sighed and shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips against his crossed knee.

"Even if Judge Benson believes Albright to be guilty, she might have to rule in his favor."

"Even with Amanda's dying declaration?"

"That's one of the reasons I want to call Ms. Ohm in as an advisor. Without clearer proof of Dillon's abuse, we're walkin' a shaky legal line here. Albright's attorney will try to prove Amanda wasn't in her right mind because of the wreck. If he can convince the judge, we have nothing."

"She was sane and lucid," Jeff insisted without a trace of any doubt.

"We have to convince Judge Benson of that." Tabor humped his shoulders and sighed. "Maybe I'm borrowin' trouble here, but it's somethin' you need to be ready for."

"I understand, Fred. Thanks." Jeff eyed the deactivated flat screen mounted on the nearest long wall. "So. Can I see this video? Where did it come from? Who filmed it? How did you find out about it?"

"One of the bystanders had a camera in his glove box. He taped bits and pieces of the action. A reporter overheard him talkin' about witnessin' a mother's dying declaration an' mentioned it on the air. One of my paralegals heard the news broadcast, and there you have it. We have a visual record of everything, starting from the moment the kids left the car, all the way 'til the EMTs extracted her body from the wreckage."

"That's wonderful. Excellent work, Fred."

"Jeff," Fred's voice dropped in timbre, "before you watch the vid, there's something you need to understand about the law that applies to this type of situation."

Jeff Tracy studied his lawyer's solemn expression and twisted his own face into a sardonic grimace.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what you're about to say?"

"Probably because you're not. From what you told me at the hospital, you mean to shelter the children for a few days then find them a new home with another family, someone who will adopt them."

"That's right."

Tabor shook his head. "I verified this when I talked to Ms. Ohm this afternoon. The Parental Declaration Act doesn't work that way, Jeff. You were there and heard what Amanda Albright had to say-her instructions were specific. According to your statement, the testimony of witnesses, and the situation captured on video, her exact words were 'I want you to take my children. Raise them. Protect them since I can't.' Had she just said to take the children, you might've had some maneuverin' room. But she specifically said 'raise them.' That's pretty damn precise."

"But surely-"

Tabor picked up a remote and activated the vid screen.

"You can watch the whole tape in a second, but listen to this. I have it queued to a specific spot. This statement, here, is the kicker."

Tabor hit the _Play_ button on the remote control. A jerky, poorly focused image of Amanda Albright's Zephyr LX crushed beneath the transport drone appeared on the screen. Wisps of hazy fog blurred the picture according to the whims of the wind. Jeff watched himself and the two EMTs kneeling next to the driver's side door.

Static, wind noise, distant sirens, a foghorn from the river below, and ambient background sounds thickened the audio but Amanda's voice came through nevertheless.

"This man ... has agreed to become th-their guardian. This ... is what I wish. Please ... I want Je-Jeff Tracy ... to ha-have full custody of my children. ... He will ... keep them safe."

Tabor hit _Pause_. The frozen, blurry image of the dying mother's face filled the vid screen.

"But I didn't agree," Jeff stammered, "not in so many words."

"Maybe not," the lawyer shrugged. "All I know is, Judge Benson will hear that and say, you might not have said it, but she believed it and you did nothing to correct her beliefs at that time. This implies non-verbal agreement with the statement. In other words, you agreed to be the guardian to Megan, Troy and Kylee Albright. This isn't a responsibility that can be passed on to another family whenever you tire of it. By not objecting at this point-" Tabor pointed at the frozen screen, "-you entered a binding verbal contract with Amanda Albright."

"Oh dear. This is definitely an unexpected complication."

"It gets better."

Jeff rubbed at his aching forehead. "Well? Don't keep me in suspense. What is it?"

"The judge has declared Troy and Kylee too young to testify. Megan, on the other hand ... Judge Benson wants to meet with her tomorrow at 10 a.m. in chambers, with both counsels. She'll take Megan's statement, ask her some questions, an' determine if Megan's old enough to testify if this goes further up the legal ladder."

"That child has been through hell, Fred. Years of abuse, the wreck, losing her mother ... Is it really necessary to put her through more? If she has to come to court, she'll be forced to see her father."

"It's not good, I admit. But if you hope to win your case, it may be necessary."

"Necessary, yes. But I have to think about that little girl, first and foremost. You should have seen her at the hospital yesterday. When her father came into the ER, she was frozen with fear."

"All the more reason to get her away from him, an' the only way to do that is to win this case. Judge Benson plans to interview Megan in the mornin', an' she'll hear both our petition and Dillon Albright's at two in the afternoon," Tabor said. "That is ... if you're still interested."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You can still walk away, Jeff. It's not too late. There's enough circumstantial evidence for the police to open an investigation. Given enough time, they'll find more, prob'ly enough to remove the kids. The State of New York can find them a new home with a loving family. You can always stay in touch."

"I could do that, yes," Jeff admitted. He rose from his chair and paced over to the nearest window. "But would that be in the children's best interests? The more I hear about Dillon Albright, the more convinced I am that Amanda was telling the truth. Sending those innocent angels back to him would be the same as shipping them straight to Hell."

Arms crossed over his chest, Jeff stared out the window of Fred Tabor's 37th floor office. Far below, New York traffic jerked along and pedestrians hustled, unmindful of the dramas taking place above their heads.

He tore his eyes away from the New York skyline long enough to give the room a suspicious glance. "Any recording devices in here?"

Tabor mock-growled and said, "You know me better than that, Jefferson Tracy. I don't record anythin' myself, and I sweep the place every week to make sure no one else's snuck somethin' in."

"Just checking." Jeff returned to staring out the window. "Since the day I first contacted you regarding Erasmus Blake, you've been a good friend to my family and most especially to International Rescue. I've never once regretted revealing the organization to you. I've tried not to abuse that relationship, and I know you've done the same."

"When I found out you were behind International Rescue," Tabor admitted, "I was sorely pressed not to say anything. When some dipstick, fresh outta diapers fancy-suit from the DA's office gets all uppity, the tiniest little bit of temptation is there to brag. I mean, who wouldn't want to tell the world they provide legal council to the commander of International Rescue? But, Jeff. I will not, I will never, do anything to betray your trust."

"Over the years, my money has been both a blessing and a curse," Jeff mused aloud. "It has helped me to do things I'd only dreamed of even as it's brought notoriety and risk to my family. But for the sake of these children, I can only thank God I have my fortune at my disposal. I will not allow these innocents to be left to either the whims of violence or an uncaring legal system."

Fred tapped the file folder and leaned back in the faux cowhide chair.

"Then I have your permission to proceed?"

Jeff Tracy looked at the frozen video image of a woman's final, desperate moments of life.

"Yes, Fred. You do."


End file.
